


I Want To Be

by stabbyunicorn



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Drama, LGBTQ Themes, Mystery, Trans, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stabbyunicorn/pseuds/stabbyunicorn
Summary: Amy Dallon was afraid. One day, she knew, she’d touch someone, and instead of healing, she’d do something else. One day, she knew, she’d play God. She’d create life. And when she begins to collect Pokémon cards, she’s afraid at what form that life might take. She needs time to sort things out. Unfortunately, a new villain has other ideas.





	1. I Want To Be 1.1 — Impersonal Touch

A touch should be personal, she thought; such luxuries were for others. Her mother’s hand upon her shoulder, cold contact diluted through clothing and cloak, ushered her to the next room, as if lacking its presence she’d somehow go astray.

Another touch once inside, upon the wrist of a wrinkled old man whose name she did not ask, who’d soon be dead with her efforts or without; a quick diagnosis; a request for permission; a less brief exercise of what could pass for her power; and again the hand upon her shoulder led her away.

She’d long stopped trying to notice her patients, just as she’d long stopped noticing the hospital’s doors and walls. Most were old and gray; none notable.

One step out of the room then another, then her mother’s grip held her back. There was no use in pulling her eyes up from the linoleum floor; the scuffs and smudges marking its surface held little interest, yet still held more than her mother’s daily ritual: a check of a watch; a sigh; an irritated mutter; then once more they’d be on their way.

“Victoria,” her mother said as if on cue. “Late every time…”

Another room, another patient, and another and another. Some injured by capes and others by accident and still more by illness; She didn’t bother keeping track. Room. Touch. Diagnose. Request. Heal. Room, touch, diagnose, request, heal, and again and again and again until finally—

“Finally,” muttered her mother, but she needn’t have bothered. Amy couldn’t miss her sister’s presence; it was everything as much as it was never enough.

“Dinner’ll be at seven,” said their mother, sparing Victoria a quick peck on the cheek. And then, custody transferred, she was gone.

“How many ya got left?” asked Victoria, but she wasn’t really asking. She knew there’d be no answer, but she lacked better words to say, so she said them anyway.

Victoria bounded down the hall, leaving ripples of light dancing about her, reflecting from her airy red top and across her bouncing blonde strands of hair. Her smile beckoned Amy to follow, and could nearly draw a smile in return. If Amy were but a bit closer—

But Amy did her best not to think about it; thoughts, too, were luxuries for other people. Were she to indulge, she’d only think thoughts she should never think, whether she were adopted or no.

“Hi!” exclaimed Victoria as she leapt into the next room. “How ya doin’?”

The woman inside looked up at Amy as she entered, her dry lips stretching and cracking around a shaky smile.

“Panacea!” exclaimed the woman excitement breaking through her slow, brittle voice. “Always wanted to meet you! Not like this, of course.”

“Hold out your hand,” said Vicky. “She has to touch you. It’s how her power works. Then you’ll feel all better! Amy, this is Brie!”

“Like the cheese,” said the woman, waiting until she’d uttered every word before she finally began to raise a shaking hand, giving it a weak little flex as she did.

“Peripheral neuropathy,” uttered Amy as she took the offered hand. “Bilateral. Lu—”

“What’s that?” asked Victoria, though she knew quite well what the term meant.

Amy shrugged. It was not worth the words to explain what she would soon heal.

“Come on. English!” exclaimed Victoria, spinning her head from Brie to Amy, flashing a bright open smile framed by peach-gelled lips. Amy almost smiled back.

“Nerve damage in both arms,” said Amy, after a moment’s pause. “Lung cancer, too. A few smaller things.”

“See?” said Victoria. “Peripheral neuropathy. Nerve damage in your peripherals. Periphery? Whatever. In this case: your arms!”

“Amazing,” said Brie.

“Yep!” said Victoria. “Now, she’ll—”

“Do I have permission to heal you?” asked Amy.

“Oh! Oh, yes,” said the woman. “Please!”

Victoria prattled away as Amy worked, healing and regrowing nerve cells here, killing off cancerous cells there, and occasionally looking up to catch a warm ray of Victoria’s glance; healing always took longer with Victoria there.

And then it was done: Brie healthy and whole, her nerve damage healed, her lung cancer gone, even her lips now moistened.

Victoria and Brie exchanged a word or two, and then only one word remained to be said.

“Bye!” exclaimed Victoria.

And it was on to the next room.

“Hi!”

“Hey! Here again,” said the girl inside, her cheer tinged with a dash of pain. “Hi Amy! Still don’t remember me, do you?”

Amy shrugged and held out her hand, but the girl didn’t bother raise her own to meet it.

“Of course she remembers you,” said Victoria. “Don’t you, Amy?”

“She’s wearing a mask,” said Amy. What else was important? A cape who could fight other capes; more than Amy could allow herself to do; more thoughts she could not indulge.

“It’s Skitter!” said Victoria. “Bugs!”

“Why’d they have to stick me with that name?” asked Skitter.

“They’re just mad you didn’t join. Armsmaster probably thinks you owe him,” said Victoria, before turning to Amy and gracing her with another radiant grin. “She’s the one who rotted Lung’s junk!”

“Oh,” said Amy, repulsion surfacing with the memory before she could once again shove it away.

“Sorry,” said the girl. “Didn’t mean to. Well, I kinda did, but I thought I was gonna die.”

“Almost did,” Amy snapped.

“You _do_ remember me!” exclaimed the girl, finally holding up her hand. Amy grabbed it and yanked off its silky glove, barely bothering to be gentle and paying no mind to where she tossed it; the girl could find it later.

“Broken bones. Bruises. Do I—”

“Yeah, you’ve got permission,” said the girl. “I bet you’d remember me quicker if I had a cool name. Like Black Widow, or Recluse.”

“You still could!” said Victoria. “I know people!”

“So do I,” said the girl with a derisive snort. “Don’t like them much.”

“They can be very nice!”

“Must be thinking of different people,” said the girl, her voice laden with sardonic amusement that failed to fully cover an undercurrent of loathing.

She shook herself and laughed slightly. “Oh— heh. Wow, forgot how good you make people feel, Amy. Almost as if all my pains’ve gone away!”

Victoria laughed, musical as ever, and Amy dropped Skitter’s hand before she could indulge an accidental thought and let it unleash itself.

“Hey,” said Skitter, and Amy finally looked up into eyes that she knew ought to have been brown, but, masked as they were, instead seemed to glow with an eerie yellow shine. “Thanks. Really.”

The girl brushed her long fingers through her dark curled hair.

“Oh yeah, I, uh,” said Skitter, before digging around in a well-hidden pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”

She withdrew a small card that was blue on one side and silvery on the other.

“The girl I saved gave it to me,” she said. “Made me think of you.”

Victoria snatched up the card and squealed a little too theatrically.

“Ooh, it’s so cute!” she said. “Chansey! Like Nurse Joy’s!”

“Nurse Joy?” asked Amy, not sure why she cared.

“From Pokémon,” said Victoria. “She has a Chansey. And now you do, too!”

She shoved the card at Amy, and after a moment Amy accepted it, striving to ignore the unnatural tingle of Victoria’s fingers against hers.

On the card was a cartoon drawing of a creature, blob-like and pink and strange in a way Amy wasn’t quite sure how to describe even though she knew she’d seen it before, whether on television or in print she couldn’t bother recall. The creature had a pouch with an egg, a couple small fingerless hands, a little smile, and even littler eyes.

_Scrunch,_ one of its moves was called. Amy snorted. A fifty-fifty chance of avoiding damage seemed about right. She sighed.

“Say thanks, Amy,” said Victoria.

Amy grunted, already halfway to the door. A patient or two left; there could hardly be more. Then she’d be flying home, held safe and warm in Victoria’s arms…

A touch. Safe, warm, yet still impersonal. A means to an end, nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t like describing people. Also, the things that catch Amy’s attention (Vicky’s hair, lips, etc.) don’t really catch mine, so I hope what I wrote didn’t come across as really silly. At least I didn’t describe anyone’s eyes as “round orbs."
> 
> I’ve not 100% decided on Amy’s first Pokémon. I kind of want it to be Pikachu, but that’s because I like Pikachu because Pikachu is the best and always will be; I have to think more to see what would be best for Amy & the story.


	2. I Want To Be 1.2 — Call Mom

Whichever she chose she’d choose poorly; still she stared, and still each carton of blackberries remained stubbornly identical to the last: white labels stuck on clear plastic wrapped around black fruit. Finally she chose with no particular logic, just an impulse, quick and without deliberation; it did not matter, anyway. The plastic carton screeched in protest as she wrenched it from its neighbors; she tried to concentrate on the grating sound, tried to focus on the uncomfortable shivers it sent down her spine, but it was not quite enough to drown out the temptation of the fruit’s own murmurings. Quick as she could, she tossed the carton haphazardly into her cart and grasped the cold metal handle. It was blessedly quiet. A moment, then she continued on her way, the cart’s wheel whimpering here and there as she went; she kicked it, but this time it refused to fall silent.

Lettuce, next. _Healthy,_ the head may have whispered to her, though she tried not to listen; the things she could do with a head of lettuce; she shouldn’t think of such things, but sometimes… But it was her own fault; she’d let Victoria leave her alone, even though she knew Saturday mornings were always the hardest. The way Victoria had looked at her; the feel of her arms around— Amy shook herself; more thoughts she shouldn’t think.

The boxes of milk were mercifully quiet. The eggs would have been less so, but she neglected to check them for cracks. And though the frozen foods would have been silently peaceful, Amy skipped past them and on to the register, behind which stood a person she couldn’t put in the effort to acknowledge. Instead, she transferred the contents of her cart to the belt.

There was little to distract her from the belt’s undulating whines and the register’s cheery rings. A row of empty brown boxes were all that remained of a presumably once-colorful candy collection; above them, vacuous headlines screamed at her from the usual assortment of tabloids, though at least today her family did not grace their pages; and above them—

A moment of staring; then she reached up her hand and gently touched them: foil-wrapped packets, all shiny and colorful and bearing drawings of otherworldly creatures. The smooth material crinkled beneath her fingertips as she dragged her hand across, bunching and twisting into little rolls and knots. She hesitated, then grasped one. A firm tug pulled it loose.

Fire swirled around the dragon-like creature on the front, almost glowing under the store’s fluorescent lights. _Pokémon,_ said the label. _Trading Card Game._ She recognized the logo; Victoria was still trying to get her to call—

The woman behind the counter coughed at her.

“Sorry,” said Amy. She began to raise her arm again, ready to stuff the packet back between the others on the overfilled rack, but she stopped short. “Actually… Could you add this?”

* * *

Victoria had forgotten to leave Amy the car keys, but still Amy left the store as quickly as she could, hastily tucking the receipt away into one of the bags for her mother’s later perusal.

“Did you get them?” asked Victoria when she finally dropped from the sky twenty minutes later.

“Get what?” asked Amy, with a small sigh somewhere between wistful and annoyed.

“You like them, too!” Victoria protested.

“If you wanted toaster pastries you should have helped,” said Amy, pulling on the trunk’s handle even though Victoria still hadn’t unlocked it.

“‘Strudels,’ and come on!” Victoria whined. “I drive, you buy.”

“Yeah, and what would mom say about _that_?” asked Amy. “I _should_ tell her.”

“You’ve _got_ to be tired of having a minder,” said Victoria. “‘Sides, it’s not like you’re _actually_ completely helpless. You totally brained the bitch.”

The car beeped, and the trunk began to open, its movement excruciatingly slow.

“I don’t think that’s what mom’s worried about,” said Amy, heaving a bag from the cart.

“Huh?”

“The milk’s going bad,” said Amy. “You going to help?”

“Nah, I’m gonna go buy some ‘toaster pastries,’” said Victoria. “Since _someone_ forgot they were on the list.”

“Great,” muttered Amy. “Fucking great.”

“Come on! Please?” said Victoria. “I’ll be quick!”

Amy tensed as arms wrapped around her, before relaxing back into her sister’s grasp; warm and inviting, yet as ever an exchange: precious contact gifted to cover for Victoria’s own mistakes.

Amy tried to pull herself away.

“What?”

“Just— nothing,” said Amy. “I— Fine, go on.”

Sometimes, she could almost say no.

* * *

“Do they _have_ to be _inside_ the pancakes?” her mother asked her. “Amy?”

“They’re better that way,” said Amy, barely drawing her gaze from the window. She could just see where the old swing’s ropes wound around the branches of the old oak tree. The swing itself was hidden from view by the overgrown foliage; her father hadn’t cut it in years. She couldn’t remember them ever using the swing, but there were pictures in the den that showed Victoria pushing her; sometimes, she’d imagine—

“It fries out all the nutrients,” said Carol, heaving an irritated sigh. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Half of these aren’t even any good. You really should check the bottom of the carton, Amy. You’re only hurting yourself, you know…”

Amy shrugged. Why did her mom care? _She_ wasn’t the one eating them.

The house shook as Victoria stormed down the stairs two at a time. She made a point to be loud; she’d not been allowed to fly down the stairs since she nearly ran down their dad. Amy tried to pretend the room didn’t light up, but—

“So, you like those Pokeman cards, now, Vicky?” asked Carol, wearing the warm smile she only spared for Victoria.

“_Pokémon_, mom,” Victoria said, grabbing her plate from the counter.

“And they were for me, actually,” said Amy, her voice a little louder than she’d intended.

“Oh,” said their mother, her smile tightening slightly. “I see.”

“A friend gave her one,” said Victoria, her voice muffled around a mouthful of pancake. “Speaking of, have you called—”

“Shut up.”

“But she—”

“I said shut up!”

“We don’t tell people to shut up, Amy,” her mother admonished as she slid Amy’s pancakes across the counter. “Friend? Who? Dean?”

“Dean’s _Vicky’s_ friend,” said Amy.

“An independent’s got a _thing_ for her,” said Victoria, pretending to swoon.

“She doesn’t!”

“Independent?” asked their mother. Her eyes slid towards Amy, and her smile fell further still. “He’s a hero, I hope?”

“She _doesn’t_ have a thing for me,” said Amy.

“She?” their mother asked, eyebrows raising. “Just who _is_ this—”

“You should have seen the way she looked at her,” said Victoria. “She—”

“You can’t tell how she— She wears a _mask_!” exclaimed Amy. She could feel her cheeks warm, and her breath felt uncomfortably hot in her lungs—

“It’s called ‘body language,’ _Ames_,” said Victoria.

“Shut up.”

“Amy,” her mom said, sighing. “What did I say—”

“Sorry.”

“And is this girl a hero or is she—”

“Of course she’s a hero, mom!” exclaimed Victoria. “She’s the one who rott—”

“Shut up!”

“Amy!”

* * *

“Just one episode, before I go out?” Victoria asked, her pleading smile radiant. “We can cuddle up on the couch like we used to!”

Amy couldn’t quite say no. But Victoria left just as Pikachu was being rushed to the Pokémon center, leaving a cold void in her wake.

“Bye mom!” Victoria shouted on her way out the door, the alarm system screeching out a long beep as she opened it.

“You have your phone?” Carol called, her voice echoing from somewhere upstairs.

“Yes, mom!”

“And Gallant will be with you?”

“Of course, mom!”

A lie, Amy knew, and sometimes she wondered if her mother knew, too. But Victoria—

“Stay safe!”

“I will!”

Victoria was a ‘hero.’ Amy snorted. She tried not to be bitter. She didn’t understand why it wasn’t enough for her to make her rounds at the hospital; why she wanted to go out and—

She jumped as the television switched channels. She’d not noticed her mother enter.

With a beleaguered sigh, Amy swept her bag from the floor and made her way to the back door. It creaked as she opened it, and again the alarm system beeped.

“You’re not going out, are you?” her mother called from the den, her warning voice carrying over the sounds of politicians and talking heads coming from the TV.

“Just outside, mom,” said Amy. She barely managed to force the words out, but her mother’s grunt indicated she’d nonetheless heard.

She shuffled slowly down what once was a path, and out to the copse of oak trees hiding the old swing away from the house.

Finally, she sat upon the wooden seat. Her hands grasped the ropes—dead and inert—and she listened to the trees rustle in the evening breeze. It’d be dark, soon.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out the packet of cards, still unopened. The foil rustled beneath her fingers much like the trees in the wind, and its surface glinted pleasantly in the evening light. She almost didn’t want to open it… but after a moment, she tore in.

Creature after creature, each more bright and colorful than the last: Rhyhorn, Zubat, Garchomp… She found herself giggling at the ‘Bidoof’ smiling up at her with its overlong teeth… There was no Pikachu, but she _did_ find a Bulbasaur. For a moment, she glanced at the trees, and the vines around them; with a touch, she could almost see how she could— But she tore her thoughts away.

She dug in her bag for the card Skitter had given her. The Chansey looked up at her with its serene little smile, its fingerless hands pressed together cutely…

Amy flipped the card over. She could just make out Skitter’s number scrawled on the back in thick marker lines.

Slowly, she withdrew her phone from her bag. For a moment, she let it sit in her lap atop the colorful cards. Should she—

She jumped as the phone began to buzz. She knew she shouldn’t pick it up, but—

“Victoria?” Amy answered.

“Hey sis,” said Victoria, her voice already apologetic.

“It’s curfew,” said Amy, not waiting for Victoria to explain. “I can’t drive—”

“You can take a taxi,” said Victoria. “Look, I’ll cover it—”

“I—” said Amy. She wished she could say no, but— “I don’t think…”

“Look, I— I’m sorry,” said Victoria. “But I need your help.”

Amy looked down at her lap, and the cards still sitting upon it.

“I don’t think I should help you again, Victoria,” she said. Was her voice shaking? She couldn’t quite tell; it was getting hard to breathe—

“But they’ll— Amy, do you have any idea what’d happen if this—”

“You need to—”

“—the media would—”

“You need to call Mom, Victoria,” Amy said, as firmly as she could manage, her fist clenching around the fabric of her skirt.

“I can’t, she’ll—”

“Call her.”

“But-”

“Call her!”

Amy yanked the phone from her ear; her finger missed the red button three times before she finally managed to hang up.

Had she really—

Her hand twitched as if to call her sister back… Their mother wouldn’t cover up Victoria’s mistakes. The media would— Amy’s life would— Her whole family’s lives would be—

She opened the keypad. Scrambled to type in Victoria’s number— then she stopped.

Her eyes caught on the card in her lap…

She dialed. A brief hesitation, then she pressed the green button…

“Skitter?”


	3. I Want To Be 1.3 — Sing

Empty row by empty row passed her by, until there were no more rows left for her to pass. Her sweater was pulled tight around herself, but still she tried to pull it tighter, and still the classroom remained unchanged yet different: empty, cold, quiet. She turned and passed Mrs. Dawson’s desk, then another and another, until she reached her own nearly at the row’s end. The seats were not assigned, but Amy could never convince herself to sit anywhere else.

She carefully set her oversized plastic jug down upon her desk’s chipped surface—still an inch of green tea left inside—and tossed her ugly, tinker-designed phone down beside it—still no new messages—before finally allowing her backpack to slump to the floor; the heavy books within thudded noisily against the linoleum.

She couldn’t remain still for twelve seconds before snatching up her phone again, only to immediately put it down once more; still nothing. A glance behind her showed little with which to distract herself; only the room, still empty, and still somehow full of the stares that had scarcely left her for the past week.

Her fingers picked at a long black hair that had settled upon her dark green blouse: one try; another; then finally she grasped the strand and flicked it aside.

The phone screen lit up—Bulbasaur’s face beneath a new message—and Amy’s hand shot out to grab it. The murmurings of the microbes as her hand brushed across the desk barely mattered, because—

_Bitches are planning something_, Skitter had written.

_Oh?_ Amy typed back.

_They’re too quiet. Almost nice._

Amy’s thumbs hovered uncertainly above the keyboard, searching for words, finding none.

_Dad’s acting off, too,_ Skitter continued.

_More than usual?_ Amy couldn’t stop herself from asking. She did not approve of Danny, but then, perhaps that wasn’t her business.

_I don’t know. Whatever_, Skitter wrote. _Maybe it’s better if they do what they want._

A pause, and Amy almost replied; she willed her thumbs to move, but then—

_Sorry. I just, I don’t know._ Skitter continued. _Never mind._

Again Amy tried to answer, but there were too many questions that she couldn’t ask, not like this, not through little words typed upon screens. She—

_Wanna grab dinner?_ Skitter asked.

Amy sighed. She started to write back, but the classroom door slammed open, admitting a cluster of students whose loud chattering abruptly shifted into whispers as they saw her, though they were no less audible.

“—brutal, just brutal—” “—almost died—” “—didn’t even heal—”

She shouldn’t listen. She tried to ignore them but—

_No there’s dinner._

Amy sent it without thinking. She shot a glare at her whispering classmates as if they were to blame for her own distraction and ineptitude, before trying again: _I mean, there’s a dinner at my place tonight. I can’t get out of it._

_With your sister’s warden?_

_Wardens,_ Amy answered. _The Director tonight, too._

_Fun._

Another three classmates entered; polite enough not to slam the door; still whispering, but—

“—it was awful—” “—blood everywhere—” “—it’s their name, or maybe it’s their power—” “—even wore red—” “Blood?”

“Blood?” Amy found herself echoing.

“Some villains killed another villain,” said one of the three—Selene, perhaps, though Amy wasn’t sure. “They made a little bit of a mess.”

One of the others snorted. Humphrey, maybe? Or Hubert? Something pretentious.

“Killed a villain? That’s what you’re going with?” he asked.

“Fine, exploded a villain,” said Selene.

“That wasn’t the ridiculous part.”

“Well, excuse me for not keeping up on the who’s who of—”

Amy’s arm jolted slightly as a hand brushed her elbow; a gesture to which Amy would never be accustomed; a cacophony of possibilities that she could never silence; a cacophony mercifully silenced as the touch withdrew almost as quickly as it had begun; just a brush, yet still just as loud. Her eyes dropped down to her elbow, then to the hand, and finally up to Daphne, who’d come in with the other two but had so far refrained from joining them in their argument.

She shot Amy a smirk somehow at once wry and grim.

“It was Lung.”

“Lung exploded someone?” said Amy. It didn’t seem so unusual to her, but maybe Amy only thought so because she’d had to examine many of those whom Lung had detonated.

“Nope,” said Daphne, a smirk crossing her face. “Lung _got_ exploded.”

“Shit.”

As soon as she said it, Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. Unfortunately, she was still holding her phone.

“Watch out,” said Daphne belatedly, her face twisting rather strangely as she strived to smother a snicker.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer villain,” said Amy as she rubbed her sore nose. The words sounded somehow more vicious to her ears than they had in her mind.

Daphne blinked.

“He’s dead,” she said after a moment, as if it were supposed to make a difference.

“He was a villain,” said Amy. Before Daphne could respond, Amy nodded towards Selene and the boy with the pretentious name, both still arguing over something— what, Amy didn’t care to determine. “They dating?”

“That’d be a disaster,” said Daphne. “No, Hubert’s _mine_.”

“Ever heard of polyamory?” Selene jutted in.

“You don’t even like him!” “Yeah? Maybe I like _you_.” “Me, Sel? The ice queen?” “I think you mean the ‘frosty bitch,’ Daph, and besides—”

As the three continued their strangely flirtatious dance, Amy found her eyes drifting up to the clock above Mrs. Dawson’s desk. The needle-like second hand ticked one inevitable second to the next, simultaneously too quick and too slow; still inevitable either way. Two minutes remained until class, four if Mrs. Dawson was as tardy as ever, but whether she was late or not, there were still scant hours before Amy’d be seated at the table with—

Amy tore her gaze away from the clock, and—after taking a swig of tea from her jug—back down to her phone; back to the ever-approaching dinner.

_You could join, maybe,_ she typed, after a moment. _I could ask Mom._

_Ha,_ came Skitter’s brief response. Skitter didn’t seem to approve of Amy’s mom any more than Amy approved of Skitter’s dad.

_She might say yes, you know,_ Amy replied, rushing through the last couple words as she heard the little slapping sounds of Mrs. Dawson’s footsteps approach the front of the class.

Mrs. Dawson sighed as she took her seat behind her desk.

“What a great day,” muttered Amy a half-second before her teacher could say the same. It was how Mrs. Dawson always began her class. Once, on a particularly rainy day, a student had asked her why the day was so great; ‘Isn’t rain beautiful?’ Mrs. Dawson had answered.

Mrs. Dawson droned on about Platonian ideals and forms, here and there pausing to ask the class one question or another, as always she did. And as always she did, Amy found herself raising her hand again and again; each time telling herself it would be the last; each time knowing she was lying; each time feeling a slight comfort at her teacher’s approval; each time that comfort fading to nothingness after but a second.

At once too soon and too late, the bell at last rang, its clanging echoing through the windows as much as the halls. It was an actual bell located in the school’s central courtyard, physically rung by a volunteer—or, more often, someone who had _been_ volunteered. A ‘tradition,’ the teachers called it.

Amy finished off her jug of tea—it had almost lasted her through the day—and made herself leave the class.

She paused outside the door for a moment, leaning upon the wall, careful not to let her elbows touch its surface—rough and unpleasant like fingernails on chalkboard; teeming with life Amy wouldn’t wish to touch power or no.

Only minutes ’til she’d need to be out front, but it wouldn’t take her long to get there; she allowed her eyes to close, just for a—

“Gimme your phone,” said Victoria. Amy’s head knocked softly against the wall, and she glared at her sister.

“Mom’ll be picking me up in a minute,” said Amy; Victoria grimaced, and Amy couldn’t quite hold back a tiny smirk. “Militia taking you, again?”

“It’ll only _take_ a minute,” Victoria said. “I wanna text, uh… you know who, before—”

“Voldemort?” asked Amy.

“Please? Amy?”

“Ask your warden.”

“Don’t call her that! Anyway, you owe me,” said Victoria. “It’s your fault I’m in this—”

“Victoria Imelda Dallon!” a voice echoed down the hall.

Victoria froze, and her face flushed as everyone else in the hall froze with her.

“Fucking warden,” Victoria muttered.

“Don’t call her that,” mocked Amy.

“Care to repeat that, Victoria?” said the voice, now right behind Victoria.

“I said, ‘Hi, Miss Militia!’” Victoria exclaimed as she spun around, her voice still low in spite of its faked brightness; quiet or not, all the eyes in the hall were still upon her. Victoria’s smile was plainly fake, and yet fake or not, Amy found her breath—

“Control yourself, Victoria,” barked Miss Militia, and the others in the hall tittered.

“Sorry,” said Victoria. “I mean, yes ma’am.”

Amy let out the breath that’d caught in her throat.

“Amy,” said Miss Militia, “please inform Carol we may be late. Little Victoria Imelda here has earned herself an extra three laps around the course; you know the one, Victoria.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. “Sadistic bi—”

“Weighted,” Miss Militia continued, her eyes not leaving Amy’s.

“Yes ma’am,” said Victoria at once.

“Shall we say seven thirty?” said Miss Militia, before turning on her heel and beckoning Victoria to follow.

The students lining the hall didn’t seem certain whether to laugh, so instead maintained a silence louder than any whisper, their eyes never straying from the departing hero and her ward; and in their distraction, Amy escaped.

* * *

“You’ve been ‘tired’ all week. Get in,” her mother commanded, holding open the driver’s door. Amy didn’t move, so of course— “If you’re too tired to at least _try,_ you’re too tired to have your friend over.”

Amy sighed, eyeing the SUV’s steering wheel in distaste. Her mom rolled her eyes, reached into her purse with one hand, and—after the sound of a lid popping open and then closed again—offered Amy a wet wipe.

After three passes of the antibacterial wipe over the wheel, two over the gear shift, and one over the turn signal stalk, Amy finally convinced herself to take her seat behind the wheel, wincing as she sat. She should have worn long sleeves; it would distract her the whole way back—

“Just push it, Amy,” her mother said.

“I ignore it all day, that’s not—”

“Then you can ignore it to press a button.”

Amy slammed the start button, not that _it_ had been the issue in the first place; _it_ wouldn’t distract her as she drove a giant death ma—

“Aren’t there microbes in air?” her mother asked.

“Not the same.”

“I’m just trying to—”

“Don’t.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Amy,” her mother admonished. “I just don’t see why you have such a problem with the _car_ of all things. You hold your backpack, your phone—God knows that must be a mess—and those packets of cards, too, and—”

“It bothers me then, too! It’s just when I’m driving—”

“Oh yes, it’s a _distraction._ We all have powers, dear, and _we_ don’t— Amy! Watch your speed. No, no, don’t brake, just let the car slow— Amy…”

“I’m trying,” said Amy. “It’s hard to focus—”

“Try harder.”

Amy did, but still—

“Too close too close—”

And then:

“Stop! Stop! Red light!”

Before finally:

“Pull over.”

“What?” Her mother had never had her—

“Pull over, Amy,” said Carol.

Amy felt her breath catch, but dutifully engaged the blinker and pulled the car over to the side of the road.

“Out.”

Amy couldn’t. Her eyes seemed stuck upon the road ahead, and her hands could not be convinced to release their achingly tight grip upon the wheel.

“Amy…”

The heat in her cheeks that she couldn’t cool; the shaking in her breath that she couldn’t steady; the wetness around her eyes she couldn’t let her mother see—

She shoved it all away as best she could; forced her eyes to move and coaxed her hands open; got out of the car and finally traded places with her mom.

Amy caught little of her mother’s lecture the remaining ten minutes home, and said even less in return. If she stared hard enough out the window, she could keep things—

“Here,” Amy’s mom said, and Amy jumped as something fell onto her lap; for all her staring, she hadn’t realized they’d arrived.

“What?” asked Amy, dazedly.

“Those cards you’ve been collecting.”

“I can tell what they are.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Uh, thanks.” Amy wasn’t sure what else to say. There was still a hint of heat in her cheeks; still a slight unsteadiness to her breath; still a clamminess to her skin.

In place of further words, she peered at the packet; it was similar to the one she’d bought herself, but in place of a Charizard was a white-furred creature with a dark crescent horn. She ran her finger across it, the smooth material somehow pleasant in spite of the life teeming upon its surface. Maybe there’d be another Bulbasaur, or—

“Inviting your friend would be a disaster,” her mom said. “Piggot would _love_ another independent rubbed in her face.”

Amy nodded. She hadn’t expected different.

Her mother laughed, and Amy looked up to see a vicious smirk.

“Still want to?”

* * *

“You can _do_ that?” Skitter exclaimed. Amy struggled to reconcile the girl before her with the hero she knew: gone was the full-face mask, replaced by a domino mask that had clearly been hastily cut from a dark gray shirt, and through which Amy could finally see Skitter’s eyes; they kept glancing her way, paired each time with quick wide smiles framed by lips graced with just a trace of red, as if Skitter had tried on some lipstick and then thought better of it.

“She could totally help Miss Militia,” Victoria said, beaming at Amy; Amy’s vision seemed to narrow. “It’s what she does!”

“I don’t know…” said Carol, as everyone else chewed their food. Amy could hear her mother’s heel, still covered by her black dress socks, tap against the kitchen’s hardwood floor. There was another sound not quite in sync; what was it?

Oh. Amy grabbed her own leg, halting her ankle’s tapping against the polished grey leg of her wrought iron chair.

“Not until she’s older,” Director Piggot said firmly, not bothering to glance up as she carefully sliced off a single bite of her ribeye, stabbed it cleanly upon her fork, swiped it through the potatoes, and then twisted it gently amongst the juice that had collected upon her plate. For all her precise care, a dot of juice still flicked upon her dark purple blouse.

“It’s up to Amy and the Director,” said Carol, running her hands across her placemat; it was a pleasant green, and Amy tried to focus upon it instead of—

“Please do not talk about me as if I am not present,” Miss Militia attempted to interject, her steely eyes flicking from Carol to Victoria and finally to the Director. Amy tried to stay quiet, but Skitter had asked—

“It _would_ just take a touch,” she said, more to Skitter than anyone else.

“Wow,” said Skitter, her fork and knife seemingly both forgotten still in her hands, her eyes locked on Amy’s own.

“Right?” Victoria enthused. Piggot scowled. Carol grimaced.

“I haven’t said whether I’d even desire such a thing,” said Miss Militia, but—

“There’s too many—” Piggot tried.

“It’s just—” Victoria started— “Please—” “I’m just saying I know Amy can—”

“Whether she can or can’t isn’t—” Carol tried to intervene, but—

“Stop—”

“It doesn’t matter until she’s—”

Bang! Miss Militia’s hand hit the table. The serving platters rattled against the glass top, and Skitter dropped her fork.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Militia said, massaging her temple.

For a blessed moment, no one spoke. Amy’s dad took the moment to take a bite of his steak, pointedly savoring it.

“Try the asparagus, Militia,” he said, gesturing a fork towards the plate.

Amy looked down at her own plate, still mostly full next to everyone else’s half empty. It was dimly lit; the lightbulb above her spot had gone out earlier in the day, and rather than replace it, Amy’s mom had decided they simply _must_ get rid of the old threadbare rug beneath the table. A week ago, Victoria could have helped, but—

“May I be excused?” Amy asked quietly, but before anyone could answer—

“Amy, uh…” Skitter said. “Can you make them— I mean if someone doesn’t _want_ to want to be, uh, like that…”

“What?” She couldn’t mean— Amy felt her face twitch strangely at the thought, whether in disgust or fear or horror Amy wasn’t sure; she felt vaguely sick.

“You know.”

Miss Militia stiffened.

“What, exactly, are you trying to say?” Piggot asked, her voice low, even harsh.

“You know, if someone _is_, uh, is… trans… can you fix them—”

“May I be excused—”

“Fix?” Miss Militia hissed.

“Well,” said Skitter, as Victoria and Carol squirmed in mirror images of each other from across the table, “some might want to be normal—”

“Excuse me?” said Miss Militia.

“I’m just saying—”

Amy leapt from her chair, its wrought-iron feet scraping horribly against the floor’s distressed wood.

Everyone looked at her.

Amy ran.

* * *

She found herself on the swing by the oak tree, nestled amongst bushes and vines, slowly rocking in unsteady twists, the evening breeze rustling the trees as she swayed. Her hands rested in her lap; the ropes held as little life as ever they did, but tonight she could hear that life nonetheless; even the air seemed abuzz with it, dancing ticklish trails upon her skin with its tiny microbes.

Amy dismissed each treacherous thought as soon as it appeared: a new kind of insect here; a plague there; or maybe…

“Can you?”

Amy jumped, her hands leaping to the ropes before she could fall.

“You know…” Skitter continued.

“Fix?” Amy asked, a sarcastic venom infecting the word.

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s not fixing,” said Amy.

“But I’m just—” Skitter cut herself off, frustration playing across her face. “Can you?”

“I don’t know.” Amy didn’t particularly _want_ to know, but one might as well try not to think of pink elephants; as soon as the question had been asked, there around the kitchen table, Amy had known. She couldn’t help but know.

Skitter held out her hand.

“Could you… could you try?”

Amy stared at the hand for a moment, before launching herself backwards in the swing with an undignified yelp. Her legs strained to keep Skitter as far from her as possible, but in the small clearing even that was too close.

“Why?” Amy asked, the single word all she could manage.

Skitter looked down at the gnarled root beside the stone bench.

“Tell me,” Amy said. “Is it your—”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me!”

“No.”

Amy tried to breathe. Tried to force some of the tension from her muscles. Tried to know what she was supposed to do; what she was supposed to say. _I don’t do brains,_ she tried to say. But instead, she said something else.

“It’d be like killing you,” Amy whispered. “I mean, I know I’m not— not like that, exactly. But I know it wouldn’t be fixing. You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t be _you._”

“But—”

“You wouldn’t.”

Skitter let herself collapse down upon the stone bench.

“It’s—” Amy searched for any words that could help. “I mean, a lot of capes are— they say one in three—”

“You don’t—”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“You don’t know anything about what I have to— You barely know me, Dallon,” Skitter said, her words filled with something not quite anger.

“I’m sorry, Skitter.” What else could she say?

“Amy…”

“It really wouldn’t, you know. Fix anything, I mean. It’d just—”

“Fine.”

“Skitter…”

“Fix me.”

Amy reached for her patience. “It wouldn’t—”

“I know. Not like that. Fix me. Fix me proper. Like you’d have done for Militia.”

Amy blinked.

She could do it. It would be easy: just a touch, as she’d said, and after a minute or three… she could feel her power swell; the buzz in the air seemed to turn to a roar; it sung; it screamed; it _terrified_ her and she couldn’t— she shouldn’t—

“I’m not supposed—”

“You’d have done it for her if she’d asked.”

“There could be legal liab—” Amy began, unsure quite what she was arguing. She could feel her fingers flexing, wanting to reach forward. “Just a minute ago you wanted me to make you stop being— Stop—”

“Look, either fix my mind or fix my body,” said Skitter, reaching her hand forwards once more, and Amy wanted to take it, but— “One or the other. Do it.”

“I’m not really comfortable—”

She should have said something else.

“Not comfortable? Not _comfortable?_ What do you think this is like for me? What do you think— What, you only help if I’m injured? Fine! I’ll just have my spiders bite me until my—”

“Stop it,” said Amy.

“—and it’s all gone and bloody—”

“Shut up!”

“Come on, your power had to have been made for more than _this_. You’ve got to want to do more. You do, don’t you? What are you afraid—”

“Do you know what biotinkers do?” Amy yelled. “Bonesaw—”

“You’re not her.”

“I could—”

“Who says?”

“My father was a villain.”

“Your father’s inside.”

“My birth father.”

“So?”

“Do you want me to turn out like him? In the ‘cage?”

“Who says you’d—”

“Shut up!” Amy yelled. “Shut up! Just shut up and go!”

“Fine.”

Amy couldn’t look at Skitter anymore. The heat in her cheeks had returned, cooled by tears she couldn’t let Skitter see.

“Amy, are you—”

“Stop,” said Amy. “I’m not trying to— Please, just… Just leave me alone.”

“I don’t— I’m sorry, Amy.”

“Please.”

Amy heard Skitter turn to leave. Her footsteps tapped across the stone walkway, then paused.

“We’ll talk tomorrow?”

Amy could barely bring herself to nod.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. She’d expected her mother to usher her inside, or her father to try to comfort her, or even Victoria to—

But they hadn’t. Maybe that was best.

Skitter had been right.

Amy wanted more. Her _power_ wanted more. And she was afraid. Not of her power; not that she’d not be able to fight it; but that one day, she wouldn’t care enough to try.

It was inevitable. Someday, she knew, something would happen; maybe it’d be something terrible, or maybe it’d be something small; an earthquake or a falling domino; but one day… one day she’d touch someone, and instead of healing, she’d do something else.

She was afraid.

She was afraid because, as much as she tried, she was struggling to care; as much as she tried, she could still feel the life buzzing all around her; as much as she tried, the ideas still poured into her head; as much as she tried, the futility seemed insurmountable; and as much as she tried…

As much as she tried, she couldn’t stop her hand from reaching out.

Hand touched vine.

Her power began to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Juff for beta-ing!
> 
> I’ve made this story too complicated. Again. Why can’t I just write a fun little story with poke-mans in it??? That’s all I wanted. Amy collecting Pokémon cards and making Pokémon.
> 
> This story was originally going to be called “Ash Dallon: Pokemon Master.” In that design of the story, Amy was going to be trans. But as I developed the story, that felt as if, rather than adding to Amy’s emotional arc, it would muddle it. So, I dropped the trans thread.
> 
> A few weeks ago, however, I became dissatisfied with my plans for this story. It was missing something. While I’d planned out an arc for Amy, all my other characters felt rather flat to me. Around the same time, I remembered that I’d told myself to weave trans topics into stories more often, as trans topics are a part of me, and as trans topics are underrepresented in fiction. So, as an experiment, I started considering what I could do.
> 
> The idea of Skitter as trans worked to bring out more in several of the characters, but there were some problems with it (that I can’t go into because spoiler reasons).
> 
> But then I remembered one of my other story ideas (I have a note full of them):
>
>> Harry Potter is trans. Trans people are common in the wizarding world. Extremely common. Magic is gendered and agendered and everything in between. Different people have different affinities. Most professional quidditch players are trans men who like their original parts, as riding a broom takes muscles that work better with testosterone, but don’t work so well with certain anatomy.
> 
> Taking the “extremely common” part and applying it to capes instead of wizards, pieces began to fit into place, and the story started to make a lot more sense to me. Doesn’t mean it’ll necessarily work so well for all of you reading it, but I hope I manage to do decently. 


	4. Interlude 1 — Blood

“Where’s Dallon?” I demanded.

“Training with Miss Militia,” my babysitter replied brusquely from across the metal table, adjusting a strap on her standard PRT body armor.

“Not her,” I said. “The Bitch. _Perfect Amy_.” The one with the power to help me; the one who refused to use it.

“You bleeding?” asked the officer, tilting her chair back upon its rear legs.

“Maybe,” I said.

The woman gestured at the open first aid kit between us.

“Be my guest,” she said, as if I hadn’t already used half the bandages. I tapped my fingers against the table, but the little clanging sounds didn’t seem to annoy the officer.

The door slammed open and Piggot strode in, already looking impatient. The debriefing hadn’t started yet.

_Finally,_ I saw the officer silently mouth as she stood, the chair’s legs squealing horribly against the cement.

“Right,” said Piggot, not bothering to take the free seat. “How many?”

“Five,” I said. “Can I see Dall—”

“I see,” she said. “I trust you understand the situation in which you’ve left yourself?”

As if I’d had any choice. The PRT’s defense training alone wasn’t enough to fend off five attackers. I didn’t need an interrogation or a lecture; I needed a doctor. Although—

“Will I need to leave Winslow?” I asked.

Piggot looked at me as if she hadn’t demanded I ace all my classes. I might talk casual, but I ain’t an idiot.

“How’s that work, exactly?” I continued. “What, tomorrow I just take the bus to Arcadia?”

“You’ll have a week off while we make arrangements,” Piggot said.

“Really?” It’d taken Browbeat two months to switch schools.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” said Piggot. “Hardly a need to protect your identity.”

“What was I supposed to do? Just let them—”

“You did exactly as you should have,” said Piggot, sighing heavily. I sat back in my chair. That had sounded almost _nice_. Perhaps it was to be expected; _Vicky_ was the new problem child of the Wards.

I looked down at the table’s scratched metal surface.

“My friends?” I asked, quietly. “Can they come?”

“Afraid not,” said Piggot.

What would Emma do without me? She better give Hebert hell. Bitch. It was _her_ fault, not that there was anything I could do about it now.

Bang! My fist clanged against the table. I took a deep breath. It didn’t really help any.

“I’ll be seeing Panacea at dinner this evening,” said Piggot. “I’ll try to see if she can come by tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Right. Well,” Piggot said, with a nod. “You’ll be talking to someone, of course; I understand they yelled all manner of vile—”

She cut herself off. Maybe she realized I didn’t care to relive the experience.

“Right. Well,” Piggot said, again. “You should head on home, Sophia. Get some rest.”

And with that she left.

It was a quiet ride back home in the van. I wondered if they’d told my mother what had happened; I didn’t much care either way. She wasn’t waiting for me when I arrived, so maybe they hadn’t, or maybe she hadn’t cared. Whatever.

My bones ached as I climbed the flight of stairs. I flung open my bedroom door, and slammed it shut behind me. Collapsed onto my bed, and—

Something red leapt at my face.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

Hess woke all alone in her room. She sat up slowly. It took her a try or two to stand, but that was to be expected.

She glanced left and right. Two doors: one for the bathroom, one for the hall. She remembered which was which, of course…

One slow step followed another, then she reached out her hand and grasped a cold metal handle.

A turn of her wrist, then she stepped into the small bathroom.

Sophia Hess’s face looked into the mirror. She blinked. Tilted her head. Was something wrong? Not the black eye, nor the cut across her cheek…

Her eyes dropped down to her lips. Ah. _That._

“What?” she asked herself, reaching up a hand.

Her fingers touched her lips. She made to wipe it off, then abruptly stopped, her arm frozen in place. Her eyes widened.

“Don’t you like it, Mr. Hess?” she asked herself, her lips twisted upwards in a mocking smile, her voice still hers but the cadence all wrong.

She took a step back from the mirror, but her feet bumped against the tub—

“Who— what—” she stammered. Her head twitched as if she was trying to look away, but—

“Who are we?” she replied, her face again twisting into that vicious, mocking grin.

“_We are Blood_.”


	5. The Very Best 2.1 — In For a Penny

“Bulbasaur!”

His eyes were wide and sad, as if he somehow knew what she must do. But with those eyes staring up at her, how could she possibly do it? How could she find the strength to unmake what she had, in her weakness, created?

She could no longer look at him. Her eyes dropped to the ground, and her hand soon followed; somewhere distant she felt the microbes and fungi at her fingertips. She’d done what she’d always sworn never to do yet always knew to be an inevitability, and now as that inevitability turned to reality she found herself unsure what might come next.

A tentative vine rested itself upon her shoulder, and again, she looked up into his eyes.

“Bulba bulba,” he said in a quiet, throaty voice. “Bulbasaur.”

Amy forced herself to swallow. Her eyes darted towards the house; its yellow lights peeked through the leaves here and there. She clenched her eyes shut.

There should be sounds, she thought, but there was only the pounding rush of blood by her ears. She couldn’t— her thoughts wouldn’t— she needed—

“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit shit, shit!”

She opened her eyes. Glanced around for help. The oak tree; the swing; the leaves; the vines; the tools she never should have used. None of it could erase—

Fuck.

She wiped at her eyes; it hurt; she’d bruise later; she didn’t care.

“Bulba?”

A sob escaped her. A nudge of Bulbasaur’s nose. Another sob.

“I have to… I have to…”

Amy’s hands began to search the dirt and stones around her. She’d dropped it; where had she dropped it? She couldn’t see, couldn’t— There!

The glass creaked in her grip. She pried her fingers loose. Tried to make out the screen. Gave up. Held the button.

“Call Skitter,” she whispered.

The phone began to ring. Once. Twice.

“Please, please, please,” Amy muttered.

On the fourth ring, Skitter answered.

“What?”

“Skitter…”

Skitter didn’t say anything. Didn’t hang up, either.

“Skitter, please,” she tried.

Nothing but breathing; Amy couldn’t tell if Skitter was upset or mad or—

“Look… I— I’m sorry,” she tried again. “I need your help.”

* * *

“You used your power.”

Amy hadn’t heard Skitter arrive. She tried to get up, but couldn’t convince her body to move, nor her eyes too leave Bulbasaur’s.

“I— I didn’t mean—” she muttered.

“You wouldn’t help me,” said Skitter, her voice harsh and bitter. “But you created a— a—”

“Shh,” said Amy, glancing towards the house, then back again to Bulbasaur.

“_That_,” said Skitter, pointing, “is not an accident.”

Bulbasaur shrunk away, whether from Skitter’s accusing finger or her loud, angry voice Amy did not know.

Amy felt her hand begin to reach out; she yanked it back.

“Skitter…” said Amy, finally tearing her eyes away and up to Skitter’s own; but instead of the eyes Amy had finally seen earlier in the evening, she only saw the yellow glow of Skitter’s goggles beneath the moonlight.

“Why don’t you ‘accidentally’ fix _me_, then—”

“Skitter, please, I— if they find out I made— They’ll—”

“Then un-make it,” said Skitter, glaring down at Amy, her head pulled back as if she could barely look at her. But her head drifted towards Bulbasaur, and something in her seemed to soften.

Bulbasaur’s vine reached out. For a moment, Amy thought he was going to reach for Skitter; instead, he tore a cluster of leaves from a branch and brought them to his mouth. He chewed contemplatively as Amy mulled over what to say.

“I know I shouldn’t have done it,” said Amy, almost whispering. “I know I fucked up, but… but that’s not _his_ fault.”

Skitter said nothing. Her eyes did not leave Bulbasaur’s. Bulbasaur continued to chew.

A beep came from the house, and the sound of a door opening was just audible beneath the rustling leaves. Amy felt her breath quicken; were they looking for her? The yellow lights twinkling through the leaves proved inscrutable.

Skitter tilted her head as if listening to something.

“Just the front door,” she said, but still she kept her voice low.

“Skitter…” Amy begged.

“Can’t take him home,” she said. “Even if Dad’s out again.”

“Don’t you have a— a—”

“I don’t have a lair, Amy,” said Skitter. “I’m not a villain.”

“I just mean—”

“Fine,” Skitter snapped, her yellow eyes returning to Amy’s. “Tonight only.”

An engine started. Was the dinner only now ending?

“Thank you,” Amy whispered.

“Tomorrow, you help me,” said Skitter. Amy opened her mouth but— “In for a penny, Amy.”

* * *

Sleep, she thought, was a luxury for other people.

Repeated replays lent the evening’s events a surreality yet offered little relief. She could still remember the feel of the finished bulb beneath her hand, at once smooth and rough and slightly chilled; was that what bulbs felt like? Or was that only her Bulbasaur?

She knew how she’d done it: she could still feel it, from the forming of every vein to the threading of every muscle, from ears and eyes to long whip-like vines. Yet for all her knowledge of what she’d done, she remembered only moments; minutes reduced down to bare seconds.

Sleep wouldn’t come, she knew, so why was she trying?

She fumbled for her laptop, her hands searching her nightstand for the boundaries of its cold aluminum frame. She didn’t notice the headphones resting atop its closed lid until they were already falling to the floor; they landed on the soft carpet floor with a muffled thud. Amy tensed. The gentle hum of the air conditioner, a noisy car driving by, fighting somewhere in the distance— nothing out of the ordinary, and no one stirring.

Carefully, Amy lifted the headphones off the floor by their cord. They’d been a gift from her mother, though she’d failed to discern her motive: they were far too nice for a hint to be quieter with her moody music, and leaked sound something awful besides.

Placing them over her head, she cracked open the laptop. Its screen shone too bright for the dark room, but for all its brightness, it did not illuminate the keyboard enough for her to find the controls with which to dim it. Her eyes would just have to adjust.

She tried to busy herself watching episodes of Pokémon. It was sufficiently occupying to stall her rumination; sufficiently inane not to require her to think. Her eyes were hardly dry yet still begged to close. Now and then she’d begin to drift off, but then her mind would wander its way somewhere unpleasant and she’d force her focus once more to the too-bright screen.

Eventually, the sounds of clattering dishes began to squeeze themselves beneath Amy’s door; that’d be her father emptying the dishwasher. The sounds of the TV would surely follow, but she knew she wouldn’t hear them through the door, even had nothing been playing through her headphones.

The obnoxious ring of her mother’s phone pierced through the walls. The loud thumps of her mother’s hurried footsteps quickly joined it. Then they both stopped, only for the footsteps to immediately begin once more: across the house and over to the stairs; up step by step; arriving at—

Two sharp knocks. Amy hurriedly tried to rub away the remnants of the most recent tears.

The door cracked open. Her mother peeked in. Eyes moved from laptop to headphones to Amy.

“Did you even sleep—”

She cut herself off. Her hand was still holding her phone to her ear. She looked uncertain what to say. Did she know? Amy’s breath caught, but it was impossible: if her mother knew, Amy would be lucky to be sent to the Birdcage.

“Something’s happened,” her mother said. “They need you.”

Amy began to get up, then spotted the uncertain look upon her mother’s face. After a moment, her mother continued.

“It’s Skitter. Hurry.”

* * *

It was a short distance to drive, but there wasn’t time to walk. Across the street and round the corner, a few blocks down followed by a left: a neighborhood like Amy’s own but older and smaller and more run-down, with narrow townhomes crammed into short little rows. Each had a little garden out front; half of them dead, the rest overrun.

Halfway down the street a cluster of vehicles flashed all colors of lights across a small yard cordoned off by yellow tape. PRT officers bustled about doing little of any use. A couple paramedics hovered over a stretcher along the street beneath the yard’s solitary tree; a dozen more were gathered over by the garage.

Had they found Bulbasaur? Amy searched the yard—

Bodies. A dozen, maybe two, strewn amongst blood and scorch marks, shards of metal and swarms of dead bugs. No sign of— But Amy shouldn’t worry about that; Skitter was—

“This way,” said Director Piggot, coffee in hand. Why was the Director here? Her hair was unbrushed and her purple skirt uneven. She’d not bothered with tights.

She led them up the driveway past body after body, some Amy recognized: Hookwolf and Kaiser impaled upon metal; the ABB’s mad bomber missing half her torso…

“What…” Amy whispered, but a trail of blood caught her eyes. It streaked across the cement, ending at a gaggle of paramedics bustling around someone in a costume propped up against the garage door.

Skitter? No. The figure was in all black. Over to one side laid a crossbow and a broken mask. The paramedics had something hooked up to her; were they—

“Shadow Stalker’s the worst off,” Piggot said. “Of the live ones, anyway. Hey! Make an opening, Panacea’s arrived.”

Amy didn’t wait for them to obey the Director; she shoved her way between two of the paramedics and reached out for Shadow Stalker’s face.

“She’s lost—”

“Yes,” said one of the paramedics; Amy didn’t recognize him. “We’re giving her a transfusion but we don’t have as much as she needs.”

Amy snapped her fingers and gestured at the tree. It was alive, she hoped. It had leaves, at least.

“Get me a branch,” she commanded. “A live one!”

“Now!” she heard Piggot yell at the useless PRT officers milling about. “Or I’ll have her use _you_ instead.”

Amy’s eyes analyzed Shadow Stalker, though her vision could tell her nothing that her touch had not already. A metal spear through her shoulder pinned her to the garage door; another impaled her foot; yet another her thigh; none could be removed until—

“Panacea,” she heard a man behind her say. “The branch.”

“Thanks,” she said, guiding the branch’s tip to the wound in Shadow Stalker’s thigh. The paramedics began to object; Amy didn’t have the patience to deal with them. “Skitter. How is she?”

“Militia?” prompted Piggot, somewhere behind her.

“Broken bones,” answered Militia, approaching from somewhere across Shadow Stalker. Amy didn’t look up. “Some deep cuts, but not much blood loss. She was lucky.”

“Was there—” Amy began; but it was no use: there was no way to ask without arousing suspicion. Again she glanced across the yard, but all the bodies remained mercifully human.

She tried to pull her focus back. The branch was slowly submerging itself within Shadow Stalker’s thigh, cell by cell morphing into blood. In a moment, she’d be ready—

Amy caught the attention of a paramedic; pointed at the shard of metal jutting through Shadow Stalker’s foot; held up three fingers. They gave her a look; she gave them her own look back. She preferred to start with the foot: it was the most delicate, with all its bones and muscles. Three… two…

A pulse of her power widened the wound, allowing the metal to slide cleanly out.

“Some of these bruises are hours old,” Amy muttered, gesturing for the paramedics to move on to the shoulder.

“Attacked at school,” said the Director.

“At school? Does she go to Winslow or something?” Amy asked. Shoulder done, she drew her attention to the thigh.

“Not anymore,” Piggot said. “Should have pulled her a year ago.”

Amy knew little about Winslow, but she knew enough. If Skitter’s treatment had been anything to go by…

She stood, her knees popping and cracking beneath her.

“Where’s Skitter?” Amy asked.

“You’re done?” Miss Militia said, peering down at Shadow Stalker with an eyebrow raised.

“She’ll wake in a minute.”

“Stretcher,” Militia said, gesturing absently at the tree and the stretcher standing in the road beside it.

Amy started to move, but she should ask— “Nobody else critical?”

“Nobody else alive.”

Skitter lay upon the uncomfortable looking stretcher. There was no support for her arms, so the paramedics had crossed them over her chest. A bandage wrapped about one, another about her torso. Amy extended her own arm and reached behind Skitter’s masked head; she should be able to find Skitter’s scalp beneath the curls—

“Remember our deal.”

Amy jumped. She hadn’t realized Skitter was awake.

“Where’s Bulb—” Amy started to whisper, but Skitter shook her head—what did she mean?—and Piggot—

“We’ve called your father, Skitter,” said the Director. “He should be here shortly.”

“_He_ is _already_ here,” came a deep voice. Amy peeked up from Skitter to spot its owner: a tall man with bloodshot eyes.

“You should be wearing a mask,” Piggot told him, but he waved her off.

“She’ll be okay,” Amy told him, her voice quiet and soft in an attempt to cover the distaste she felt for Danny. “Armor stopped the worst of it.”

“She shouldn’t have needed it,” he said, making no attempt to hide his own icy fury, and Amy felt her own rising to match it. “I forbid her from—”

“Well, perhaps you should have been there to see that she didn’t,” Amy snapped.

She should have remained silent. Danny’s focus had been on Skitter; now it was on _her._

“She’s not to be around _you_, either,” he said. He took a heavy step forward, his fist flexing by his side.

“I’m _healing_ her.”

“_Only_ healing?”

Amy shot him a disdainful glare, but instead of honoring his question with an answer, she turned back to Skitter. Another minute or two on broken bones, then she could begin—

“Sir, you can’t—” said someone behind her.

“I _don’t_ allow this,” Danny said firmly. “She’s going to make my _daughter_—”

“We can’t interrupt,” another voice said. “It could—”

“I said _no!_”

“Danny!” exclaimed Piggot. “Danny, please, calm down— she’s not going to—”

Skitter laughed.

“Oh, but she _is,_” Skitter said.

“Shut up!” hissed Amy, but even had she wanted to, Skitter couldn’t have unspoken the words.

“Amy,” said Piggot slowly.

“I have to,” Amy whispered. “She… I…”

She knew she’d messed up last night. She’d used her power for her own amusement; it had been selfish, it had been _wrong_, she’d known it was, had _felt_ it was, and still she’d done it anyway… But this… this was different. It meant so much to Skitter, how could it be—

“Stop her!”

“Danny—”

Something slammed into Amy. Her breath left her as she hit the ground, her mother atop her.

But—

She should have expected it; still she felt betrayed. Her mother had—

“Stay down,” her mother hissed in her ear. Was it a threat? No. Her mother was _afraid_. But—

Then Amy noticed the screams.

Amy tried to see; tried to interpret the animated shadows cast by the emergency vehicles’ flashing lights; tried to see where the barest hints of dawn illuminated shapes in the distance.

There! In the narrow gap between two houses stood a girl with dark hair— brown? Amy couldn’t tell. She wore a dark mask that seemed to shimmer; below it, her lips were twisted into an angry sneer.

She began to advance, slowly emerging from the shadow. _Red:_ her mask, her lipstick, her clothing; all dark like blood and flowing in constant streams about her as she moved.

She flicked a finger, not breaking her steady stride. A lance of red shot from her and right at—

No! Amy’s eyes widened; she felt her mom move—

Red blood met yellow light in a violent splatter, leaving behind little more than a scarlet mist—her mom had formed the shield only just in time. It should have made a sound, but—

Shouts; charging footsteps; Amy couldn’t make out what was happening, only that the girl hadn’t slowed her advance; was still—

Containment foam shot at the girl. She’d move, wouldn’t she? Attack; step aside; _something_, or anything at all, even just drop the angry sneer from her bloodstained lips.

The girl didn’t. The foam coated her body; formed into clumps; froze solid.

Everything went still. The shouts and the footsteps had stopped. Amy’s mother let out a breath, and Amy allowed herself a breath of her own.

Was that it?

But—

Something dark began to gather in front of the foam, dimming its pale surface in dark smoky billows. Amy had seen that smoke before, but it couldn’t—

“Power copier!” Piggot yelled. “Get the capes out of here! The power’s Stalker’s; use your—”

Amy felt herself being pulled to her feet as the shadowy figure emerged from the foam and turned corporeal once more; still the same girl, still cloaked in blood, still advancing.

Strands of something shot at the girl, sharp metal prongs glinting in the sun’s oblique angle. But a quick flick of her hand brought a bubbling red shield up to meet them.

The prongs sank into the shield and caught themselves within its swirling mass. A tug yanked the taser from the officer’s hand.

“Come on!” Amy’s mom said, pulling on her wrist. Amy looked around for Skitter. She was still on the stretcher; a PRT officer was fumbling with the brakes but couldn’t seem to work them through his panic—

Another flick of red shot from the girl; it hit the fumbling PRT officer in the face. Amy couldn’t see what happened; the man twitched once; stumbled away from the stretcher; twitched again; and finally—

Bang!

He exploded in a shower of red mist.

Everything stopped. Even the girl stopped her advance.

Then she gestured.

Something small ran out from the shadows behind her: a small creature, green and blue—

_Bulbasaur._

Where had he been? What was he _doing?_

His vines whipped forward. They rushed at Skitter’s stretcher; tangled themselves about its legs; pulled.

But why—

Amy’s mom tried to pull her along again but she couldn’t move; _Bulbasaur_ was there and he, he…

The girl must have done something to him, or else maybe it _wasn’t_ him, maybe the girl had copied Amy’s power and— Amy yanked her hand from her mom’s grasp; tried to run forward; if she could just _touch_ Bulbasaur, she could stop him— could find out—

Something shoved her back.

_Shadow Stalker._ She stood shakily, crossbow held aloft. She let loose a bolt; it shot towards the villain— But it missed.

Amy tried to edge around Shadow Stalker. Bulbasaur was pulling the stretcher farther away; the brakes slowed his progress, but—

A knife sliced through his vines. Miss Militia!

Bulbasaur shrieked piteously—

“You will give her to us,” the girl commanded. “You don’t want her. Or don’t you know who she is? What she’s _done_?”

“Oh, I figured _that_ out,” Shadow Stalker laughed, glancing towards where a PRT officer was guiding Danny away from the fight. “_You_ don’t get her.”

Another bolt shot by the villain’s ear. She didn’t so much as blink.

“And who is _us_?” Miss Militia demanded. A deafening bang sounded as she fired something at Bulbasaur. Her other hand tried to keep Skitter from getting up—Skitter’s ribs were still fractured—but Militia didn’t have enough hands, and the stretcher’s brakes were still—

Militia kicked at the brake lever; something snapped, but before she could begin to pull the stretcher to safety she was tackled. Whatever she’d fired at Bulbasaur hadn’t been enough.

“We are _Blood_,” the girl replied. “We ended Lung and Bakuda. Hookwolf and Kaiser. We succeed where _you_ fail.”

Amy tried to move; Militia and Bulbasaur were wrestling only yards away, but—

Blood’s gaze snapped to her.

“We know what _you’ve_ done, too, Amy Dallon,” Blood spat. “_Hero_.”

Amy froze. But—

“Run!” Skitter yelled, pain staining every inch of her voice as she toppled from the stretcher. Blood reached forward as if to somehow catch her— “Now!”

A flash of fire; Bulbasaur shrieked; Militia stumbled away, drops of flame still falling from her flamethrower. She grabbed Skitter and ran, pulling her along damaged ribs or no, but Blood—

Blood had disappeared behind a wall of insects. Lances of blood flew everywhere, but were slowing—

“Amy!”

Her mom grabbed her.

This time, Amy ran.

* * *

“Probably does it by taking your blood,” Victoria said. She’d joined them for the debrief at PRT headquarters downtown. “She’d taken Shadow Stalker’s, right?”

“Likely,” said Piggot. “But not necessarily.”

They were gathered around a cramped conference room’s whiteboard. They’d collected the obvious facts—Blood controlled blood; Blood could use other capes’ powers—but had failed to discern much more.

“What does she want?” asked Skitter. She jerked her shoulder, wincing slightly as her ribs ached, but she couldn’t shake her father’s hand away; couldn’t go to Amy. And across the room from her, neither could Amy join Skitter, her mother’s hand upon her own shoulder. It had been the condition for Skitter’s participation in the debrief.

“Blood is _angry_,” said Miss Militia. She gave the hand on Skitter’s shoulder a disdainful glance, then turned back to the whiteboard. “What _I_ find interesting, however, was the animal she used. A Pokémon. I believe Panacea collects—”

Director Piggot scowled; made to say something—

“Yeah, I gave her a card,” Skitter jutted in. “Got it from one of Blood’s victims.”

“The creature did not seem inline with her other powers,” Miss Militia said. “She likely stole someone else’s.”

“A biotinker?” Amy’s mom asked. The grip on Amy’s shoulder tightened.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Piggot, though Amy wasn’t sure to what she was referring. “Unless Miss Dallon has lost some blood, or we’re wrong and Blood copies powers by proximity, it’s likely we have another cape. A Pokémon user—”

“Trainer,” said Victoria, helpfully.

“Trainer, then,” said the Director. “Write it down. Not that we have anything else to add. Maybe Blood killed them, or—”

The Director shook her head. Sighed.

“Well,” she said. “Not all biotinkers are as honorable as present company. We’re not going to get anywhere further with this today. Dismissed.”

Everyone began to leave, but—

“Amy,” said the Director. “It’s— Mrs. Dallon, would you mind giving us a few minutes?”

Amy looked at her mom, eyes wide; but with a shrug, her mom left her.

The Director regarded Amy for a long moment, her calm breaths at odds with Amy’s own.

“You made a mistake,” Director Piggot said at last, her voice oddly soft. She couldn’t mean— “What matters is you owned up to it. I respect that.”

Amy began to shake her head; she hadn’t-

“Your sister’s getting the mentorship she requires,” Piggot continued. Oh. _That_ mistake. “It’ll be okay, Amy.”

Amy didn’t know how to reply, but the Director didn’t seem to mind.

“You’ll see,” the Director said.

But it wouldn’t be.

Amy had done something villainous: she’d played God. Created life itself. And now, that life resided in the hands of a villain worse even than she, and—

And now, Amy had lied. The villain had done _something_ to Bulbasaur, and the PRT didn’t know the truth. Amy had lied and now there wasn’t a way out. People would get hurt, and _Amy_—

She should come clean and accept the consequences, whether that was the Wards or the cage or something worse beyond…

But Blood had taken Bulbasaur.

She was in a hole, she knew; she should stop digging, but all she could think about was _her_ Bulbasaur in _Blood’s_ hands; she couldn’t—

She’d come clean. But she’d get him back _first._ And if that—if falling to her pride; rescuing the product of her own weakness—if that was villainous…

If it made her a villain…

In for a penny, in for a pound. She was going to need more Pokémon.


	6. The Very Best 2.2 — Boom. Hero.

“You’ll be alright, then?” her mother asked.

Her mom’s metal thermos of green tea clinked against the kitchen counter and her keys jingled in her hand, but Amy’s eyes were fixed upon her own phone’s screen.

“Yeah,” Amy mumbled. _Stay away from my daughter,_ the phone read. Skitter’s number. Beside the phone, Amy’s breakfast had barely been touched.

“Amy?”

“I’m not about to play with matches, mom,” Amy said.

“Amy…” The phone’s screen dimmed; Amy tapped it bright again. Her mother sighed. “Eat your toaster pastry.”

“_Strudel_,” Amy muttered. “I have to go.”

She reached for her phone and began to stand, but—

“You have to sleep,” her mother said firmly. Her voice softened. “What’s going on, Amy?”

“Nothing,” Amy snapped. “I’ll still make it to the hospital, I—”

“No. You’ll eat your breakfast, and then you’ll _sleep_,” said her mother. “No school. No hospital. I should’ve made you sleep instead of take you—”

“Shadow Stalker would have _died,_” said Amy, eyes snapping up to glare at her mother. “_That_ wouldn’t have reflected well on—”

“Yes, well, you’re also—”

“What do you _want_ from me?”

Amy shouldn’t have yelled, but she couldn’t prevent herself, just as she couldn’t prevent herself from becoming—

“I want you to sleep,” her mother said, her voice quiet. The wrinkles around her eyes were somehow softer than usual.

Amy searched for words with which to slap away her mother’s faux concern, but instead—

“I can’t,” Amy said.

“Amy…”

“Skitter’s dad messaged,” said Amy as if it explained everything. But then, perhaps it did: where Blood had taken Bulbasaur, Danny had taken Skitter.

“Amy, I—”

“He says to… to…” Her eyes fell back to her phone’s screen. Tapped it on again. The message still looked up at her.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said.

“I don’t want to,” Amy whispered.

“Then don’t.”

Amy blinked. She looked back up to her mother, who still stood across the kitchen counter.

“He took her phone,” said Amy.

“What are Skitter’s pronouns?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Language, Amy,” said her mom. “I… I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Never stopped you.”

“Amy…”

“Just… I just need to…”

Her eyes drifted towards the foyer. She needed to talk with Skitter, she needed to make a new Pokémon, she needed—

“Sleep,” her mother said. “It will help.”

* * *

Amy did not sleep.

Skitter. Bulbasaur. Friend. Responsibility. There was only one choice she could make, loathe as she was to make it. But soon it would be time: her dad would leave and she could escape unnoticed.

She could not sleep, nor could she decide, so instead she tried once more to distract herself with episodes of Pokémon: a strange Pokéball given to an old man; Ash and his friends going to pick what must have been a hybrid of apricot and acorn; Team Rocket trapping them in a hole; Bulbasaur—

She should have slept.

She’d get Bulbasaur back. There was no other choice. She’d start as soon as her father left. She’d find him, and then she’d find Skitter.

And once they were safe—once she fixed her mistakes—she would turn herself in. _She would_, she promised herself. She’d face the consequences, whether they be Birdcage or worse. It was what she—

The alarm system chimed. Her father’s car started. Finally.

She rushed downstairs. Poured water in the electric kettle. Scribbled a quick note for her parents as it boiled.

The kettle beeped.

Time to go.

* * *

She found her lair behind a run-down house not far from where the morning’s battle had been. It wasn’t as ideal as the forested mountains west of Brockton Bay, but neither was it three bus rides and as many hours away. Its dozens of trees were packed into a small backyard surrounded by rotting fences. The house appeared abandoned, but Amy suspected it and most of its neighbors had never sold to begin with: too many of the trees were too old, and hardly any could have been planted intentionally.

Amy walked beneath the canopy of the backyard’s miniature forest. The ground was covered by dirt and moss and dying brown leaves. A small creek cut through the middle, the remains of a little garden bridge crossing over it.

She found a spot by a small clearing, just beneath a tree. There was nothing upon which to sit, so she sat upon the ground, laying her backpack down beside her. The life below her seemed to scream up at her through her jeans, but there was little point in ignoring it. Instead, she breathed deeply through her nose, feeling the spores tickle her nostrils, then breathed out through her mouth.

Her hand found its way to the tree’s trunk. The things she could make: there were hundreds of Pokémon from which to choose, and a million lifeforms more besides. It was dizzying, it was enthralling, it was—

She removed her hand from the tree. Reached into her backpack. Pulled out her new packet of cards. If her mother had guessed what she’d use it for—

It didn’t matter. Amy tore it open.

A fiery red card sat atop the stack. On it was a picture of a creature somewhere between lion and dog, with red fur and black stripes and a fluffy white mane. _Arcanine._ It seemed to sparkle under the rays of sunlight peeking through the leaves. _Extreme Speed. Overrun._

She thumbed through some more. Some energy. A potion. A Surskit. A Paras. And possibly the cutest Pokémon she’d ever seen: Whismur.

She wanted the Arcanine, and she wanted the Whismur, but neither were what she needed. The PRT had tried tasers against Blood as soon as they’d seen her use Shadow Stalker’s power. If electricity was a counter…

She knew it was a stretch— a weak attempt at a rationalization. She wanted _this_ particular Pokémon beyond all others; she had ever since she’d seen him, even though she did not have his card. She couldn’t stop herself from indulging in her selfish desire, so lied to herself that it was out of practical need, but either way—

Her hand found its way back to the trunk. When the thought had first struck her she’d been uncertain if it were even possible, but as soon as her hand touched bark the designs leapt into her mind fully formed.

Last time she’d done it she’d hardly known what she’d been doing; her power had almost seemed to act upon its own; it had sung a song Amy had hardly understood, and though it must have taken minutes she’d hardly registered the time passing.

Now… Was this what it was like for Victoria when she hit things? For her mother when she made her blades of light? Amy could feel each and every cell as she siphoned it away from the tree, millions flying past in the blink of an eye yet each one _hers_ to change.

She took them; shaped them into a fleshy pod that steadily grew. Inside she could feel each muscle as it stretched across each bone; each strand of fur as it grew from each follicle; each artery and vein feeding from and to the heart; each neuron threading from the—

Oh, God, the brain! Almost divine, its neurons stretching into every extremity of the body, through every muscle and into the skin and more still into the tight coils of cells in the cheeks; the reservoirs feeding special pathways through its body and down to its jagged lightning-bolt tail—

It was a universe.

It was _hers._

At last, the fleshy pod split open. Amy peered into the slit, and a large eye blinked back at her. It wiggled for a moment, and she almost helped it. But then with a quick twist and a shake it pulled itself from the gap and climbed from the pod. It fell flat upon its face as its hind leg caught, and again Amy reached to help, but then it stood and shook itself off, before finally—

“Pika?”

He was perfect.

Why did she reach out to touch him? She wasn’t sure. Was she checking his vitals? His energy stores? Or…

Hand met fur. He was so soft… He leaned into her touch and seemed to purr…

Amy found herself laughing.

She swept Pikachu up in her arms and let herself fall backwards onto the ground. She scratched the top of his head as she gazed up through the canopy of leaves and at the blue sky beyond. She could feel the rays of sun upon her cheeks, and for a moment she could forget anything else.

“Pika pi?” Pikachu asked, pulling himself onto his feet and looking down at Amy from his perch on her stomach.

“I, uh… I made you, I guess.”

“Pika? Pi pika pi?”

“You’re perfect.”

“Cha!”

Amy grinned at him, but as she looked up to the sky she found her grin’s cheer tinged by an undercurrent of melancholy.

“You have a brother, you know,” she said.

“Pika?”

“Bulbasaur,” said Amy, glancing to Pikachu, then immediately back up at the sky. “He— a villain took him.”

“Pika pika?”

“A bad person,” Amy clarified. “One with superpowers. Bulbasaur’s with her, now.”

“Pika pi? Pi pika pi?”

“He doesn’t want to. She’s making him do what _she_ wants,” Amy said. “It must be horrible.”

“Pika?”

“I’m not much better,” said Amy. “I could make people do what _I_ said, if I wanted. I’m a ticking time bomb. Hell, maybe I’ve already—”

“Pika!” Pikachu growled. “Pika pi!”

Amy giggled.

She looked back to Pikachu; at his face, into his large eyes… Then—

“Do you want to help me get him back?”

Pikachu’s cheeks began to let off sparks of electricity. His eyes narrowed. His face scrunched up.

“Pikachu!”

* * *

War. She’d stumbled right into it, Pikachu on her shoulder, scarf over her face and hair. Neither could protect her from bullets.

“Move, or I shoot,” one of the nazis said, his gun trained on her— or, perhaps, on Pikachu.

She’d been trying to find Blood, not that she knew where to look. Instead, she’d stumbled upon nazis going door to door in broad daylight, in what should have been firm ABB territory, rounding up anyone of whom they did not approve. She’d stared at them a moment too long: they’d seen her, then they’d seen Pikachu.

The nazi escorted her towards a group of what must have been twenty or thirty prisoners, huddled in the middle of the street guarded by a dozen armed men.

“She a cape?” asked one of the guards.

“Does it matter?” grunted the man escorting her. “Guns are faster than powers.”

“Could be bulletproof,” said the guard. His eyes scanned her dispassionately, as if she weren’t anything more than an animal—

“I’m not,” muttered Amy, not that it would help. If she could get to the middle of the crowd of prisoners, they might not notice if she had Pikachu attack.

“She’d’ve killed us already.”

“Fine,” said the guard. “But kill the yellow thing.”

“No!” yelled Amy.

The guard didn’t so much as acknowledge her. She heard the man behind her raising his weapon—

Pikachu tumbled as she dove to the side.

“Pikachu!” she yelled as her shoulder scraped upon the asphalt. “Quick Attack into Thunder!”

She saw the nazis moving. They raised their guns towards the sky, but—

“Pika-_**chu**_!”

She should have closed her eyes. Everything disappeared in a flash of bright white that collapsed into a cloud of muddy gray. A boom of thunder slammed into her with a wave of heat.

Amy tried to see, tried to blink away the muddiness in her eyes. She could see the echoes of a dozen streaks of plasma drawn to the nazi’s raised guns as if to lightning rods. Above the ringing in her ears came a series of bangs— gunshots?

Somewhere beneath it all she heard Pikachu squeal.

“Pikachu!”

Her palms scraped against the ground but she ignored the pain; she scrambled to her feet and rushed forwards. She could see Pikachu laying on the ground. His yellow fur was stained with red. Bullet wounds, but how—

Pikachu wasn’t the only one on the ground; so, too, were the nazis. Belatedly, she heard their screams.

The crowd was rushing forward, trampling the fallen nazis cradling their mangled hands; the lightning’s plasma must have detonated all the guns’ bullets. Unfortunately, some of them had still hit their target.

Amy crouched by Pikachu. He was lucky: one bullet had pierced his stomach, another had grazed his ear. She didn’t have enough material to fix him properly, but she could patch him up.

Finally, she stood, and so too did Pikachu. He crawled up her leg and perched on her shoulder—

“You a healer?”

“What?” asked Amy. She looked around—

Shadow Stalker stood above one of the nazis, her foot nudging him in the side. He moaned slightly at the touch.

“They could use help,” she said. “If you’re feeling generous.”

Amy almost moved, but—

“I— I used a potion,” she said. She shouldn’t have lied, but if they saw her heal…

“Potion?” asked Shadow Stalker.

Amy knew she should help anyway, damn the consequences, but—

“Pokémon thing,” said Amy. “Doesn’t work on humans.”

“Pity,” said Shadow Stalker. Amy couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded oddly pleased. “Poor things.”

“You, uh…” Amy said, glancing around, but she didn’t see anyone from the Protectorate or the PRT.

“They wanted me to rest,” said Shadow Stalker. “But nazis don’t. Nice job, by the way.”

She took a step towards Amy; Amy took a step back before she could stop herself.

“They caught me,” muttered Amy.

“But you were better than them,” said Shadow Stalker. “Most independents don’t do so well.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“No,” said Shadow Stalker, looking back down to the nazi at her feet. Amy somehow got the feeling she was smiling. “But you could be.”

Amy snorted.

“I just want Bulbasaur back,” Amy said. “I’m not— I was never going to be a hero.”

“Did _Blood_ take him?” asked Shadow Stalker. Amy nodded hesitantly. “If you beat Blood, they’ll love ya. Boom. Hero.”

“Boom?”

“Boom.”

Amy reached a hand up towards her shoulder; scratched a spot behind Pikachu’s hind leg. It was a nice idea, but she didn’t see how it could be anything more.

“I don’t even know where Blood is,” said Amy. “And even if I did, I doubt I could—”

“Then get some help,” said Shadow Stalker. “Got a friend?”

“Uh, no— well, maybe one,” said Amy.

“Make that two,” said Shadow Stalker. She glanced around as she reached for her waist—was she going for her knife? No: her hand darted around it and to a pocket, and from it, she pulled a phone. She stepped forward and held it out.

“I’m not giving you my number,” said Amy.

“It’s yours,” said Shadow Stalker. “I’ve got more. It’s a burner. Got my number on it.”

“Why—”

“Never know when you’ll meet someone interesting,” she said. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Look, I heard Blood’s—”

“Shadow Stalker!” a voice yelled. Miss Militia stood in a PRT van a block down. “What are you—”

“Shit,” muttered Shadow Stalker. “Go on. I’ll message you.”

Amy turned to go, but—

“Wait!” called Miss Militia. “You! With the— ‘Trainer?’ Hey! We just want to— Shit.”

Amy ran.

* * *

_The Docks,_ Shadow Stalker’s text read. _Near the Boardwalk._

Amy should have gone home. She could barely keep her eyes open as she walked through alley after alley. The buildings offered little shade—it must have been around noon—and her jug of tea had never felt heavier.

But Pikachu seemed in good spirits, in turns trotting ahead and waiting for her to catch up. Here and there he sniffed the air. Occasionally—

“Pika pi,” Pikachu offered, waving his cute little arms around.

“More than usual?” asked Amy.

“Pi pika,” Pikachu said, lowering his head mournfully. It was disheartening how much blood stained Brockton Bay’s streets.

“Pika?” Pikachu said suddenly. “Pi pi pika!”

He began to rush forwards. Amy tried to make her legs move faster; Pikachu wasn’t moving _that_ quickly; if she pushed herself—

“Pika pikachu!” Pikachu exclaimed, pointing at a trail of blood leading down yet another alley. It looked like it might still be wet. Blood wouldn’t leave a trail, would she? But her victims…

She began to jog down the alley; the trail turned, and she followed; again, and then—

The trail ended in the middle of an alley, only a block or two from the Boardwalk. Amy had almost expected to find a body, but instead there was only a small stain, still glistening red. Perhaps that made sense. Amy could hear the annoyingly happy sounds of tourists nearby; whoever it had been wouldn’t have lingered long.

She sighed, then laughed softly as Pikachu mimicked her.

“I don’t know,” said Amy. “I don’t know.”

“Pika pi,” offered Pikachu. “Pika?”

“Maybe,” said Amy.

“Pika.”

Pikachu looked up at her, then froze.

“Pika pi! Pika!”

Pikachu gestured wildly. Amy felt her breath catch: he was pointing somewhere past her. She started to turn, but then a voice, familiar yet different—

“Are you looking for _us_, Amy Dallon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Fwee, Juff, and others for betaing :)
> 
> I realized I'd been going excessive on the description (kind of inverse of me a year ago as I was starting Reparo). I tried to tone it down a bit.


	7. The Very Best 2.3 — Don't do anything rash.

Where alley met road she stood, blood twisting dark and red around her. She glanced left, right, and up above; then narrowed eyes dropped once more to Amy.

“All alone, Amy Dallon?” Blood spoke, her voice an angry taunt. Pikachu protested, but taunts did not matter; only one thing did:

“Where’s Bulbasaur?” Amy demanded.

Red lips framed white teeth in a smirking grin of hateful delight. It held for but a moment till grin fell to grimace. Eyes hardened, fists clenched, then at last Blood spoke again.

“Where’s Taylor?”

“Taylor?”

“Your friend,” said Blood.

“Fuck you.”

Blood took one step and then another, her pace steady and slow. The alley’s sharp shadow crawled down her face; her red blood mask turned black beneath it.

“Where is she?” Blood asked, quiet voice nearly gentle. “We can give you back your creature. Just tell us where she is.”

“Us?” asked Amy.

“Us,” they agreed. They _were_ a they, weren’t they? Amy wasn’t sure.

“You might not have Bulbasaur.”

“You know we do.”

“I…” Amy began. “I don’t—”

Skitter. Bulbasaur. Friend. Responsibility.

There was only one choice, and it wouldn’t matter anyway: Amy didn’t know where Skitter was; she only knew—

_She’s with her father_, Amy tried to say. It was vague. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, Skitter could handle herself. But instead—

“I don’t know,” said Amy, still something of the truth.

“We don’t believe you,” said Blood.

They reached their hand up to their mask and flicked their index finger.

A drop of blood flew at Amy. She tried to move but—

It hit her face and slid into her mouth with the taste of metal.

She felt her every muscle freeze; only her heart still seemed to beat, racing and straining as she tried to move a muscle, any muscle, even just her pinky, but—

Amy’s lip twitched. Had she meant to do that?

Why was she grinning? It wasn’t— She wasn’t—

She tried to say something; strained to breathe; strained—

The air left her lungs, her vocal chords shifted, and she spoke, but the words—

“We are Blood, Amy Dallon,” she heard herself say. “And you are us.”

Amy’s head tried to shake yet found itself held fast. Her eyes tried to shut yet remained firmly open. Her feet tried to run; body tried to flinch away; lungs tried to scream, but—

“Can’t you feel it?” she found herself speaking again. “We flow through you…”

And Amy could.

Blood _crawled_ through her, reaching through each artery and vein. The intrusive touch of their every cell against her own, infecting her, _claiming_ her, invited a shudder of revulsion that could not escape Blood’s firm grip.

She was _theirs._

“It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?” Blood asked. “Your power. The things you can do... the things _we_ can do… All it takes is a touch…”

_Touch._ Blood’s terrible, intrusive touch… she could _feel_ it, not in the way she could herself, but in the way she could others: the blood crawling through her veins was not _hers_. And if it was not hers…

“You’re exactly what we need, Amy Dallon,” Blood said through her, but it was hardly important; Amy had to concentrate, to— “With you, we can fix things— fix everything—”

Amy grabbed her power and _shoved_—she stole back what was hers, and destroyed what was _theirs_, and then—

She could move.

Blood stumbled backwards into sunlight.

“Pikachu!” she yelled. “Thunder shock!”

White lightning overcame the harsh sun; it filled the alley with blinding light. Someone screamed—was it Blood?

Slowly Amy’s vision cleared, the blotchy blueish echoes fading until she could see: Blood on the ground, and Pikachu standing angrily upon them.

A thrill of victory ran through her. Blood, defeated at her hand… She should feel heroic. She’d done something _good_. Hadn’t she?

She glanced around the alley. They were no longer alone: others must have heard their battle. They fumbled with their phones, recording and documenting and calling for help—

Amy’s eyes fell back to where Blood lay unmoving.

Had she killed them? She almost rushed forward to check, but—

_Did it matter?_ Blood had killed. Did that make them fair game?

The thought did not quell the sick feeling settling into her stomach. The crowd swirling around her seemed to cheer. Were they cheering for death? Or were their cheers only Amy’s imagination, her own guilt made manifest?

She took a shaking step forwards, then another; reached down, and—

A relieved breath escaped her: their heart still beat, their neurons still fired. Were they awake? Were they aware?

Amy couldn’t quite tell. There was something interfering. Something familiar.

Something _revolting_.

_Blood._

The body before her, with its brown hair and blue eyes… it couldn’t be Blood’s own. It was _infected_.

Blood’s horrifying touch raced through her again. An echo only—not real, not a threat—yet still Amy’s hand withdrew, and still she found herself shuddering. The _wrongness_, the _invasion_, the _helplessness_, the _touch_—

But Amy wasn’t helpless.

She could right the wrongness, destroy the invasion, rescue this body from that awful helplessness. It would only take a touch…

She reached out her hand—

“Hey!”

It hit her shoulder’s bare skin, an inch away from the protection of shirt and scarf. The thin stripe of pain screamed at Amy, stinging as if her flesh was being torn from her.

She wasn’t aware of turning until her eyes met theirs: a tall redhead wearing red lipstick a mask of Blood. Beside her, Bulbasaur—

Amy twisted away from another lash of Bulbasaur’s vines. She risked a glance at Blood—

“Pikachu, try—” Amy started, only to dodge Bulbasaur again. If she could just—

Pikachu growled as a flash of white met a flash of red in the corner of Amy’s eye. She wanted to look, but—

She scrunched up her face: there was a fifty-fifty chance this would work; a hundred percent chance it would hurt immensely.

Amy hissed as she met Bulbasaur's snapping vine with her forearm, catching it in her hand as it curled its way around her wrist. Her feet left the ground as he yanked at her; she grunted as she felt her shoulder threaten to dislocate.

The pain was loud, but she tried to focus on the touch of his vine against her skin; on his body which _she_ had created; on the _wrongness_ infecting it.

She flexed her power, and then—

Amy felt herself collapse against a hard cement wall.

She took a breath, then another, then remembered—

“Pikachu!” she said, pulling herself to her feet. A few feet away Bulbasaur stood dazed. Behind him, Pikachu leapt through the air, electric charge building up around him.

He was coming right for Amy.

A flash of white— Pain— Cement slamming into her back—

Amy felt herself collapse; her thighs hit pavement, and her head fell limply upon her shoulder. She tried to stand—tried to move—but her muscles refused to obey, choosing instead only to twitch here and there in a pattern she couldn’t identify. _Was this what electricity usually did?_ she found herself wondering dazedly. _Or was it just her Pikachu?_

A shadow crossed her vision. It took her a moment to reconcile the red mask with the identity of its owner.

“Useless,” muttered Blood. “Your power was made for more.”

A stream of blood flowed into a blob of something; it spun and spun, its tip sharpening. After a moment, Amy recognized it: a spear.

She felt herself laugh. Her death wouldn’t come in the terror of the Birdcage or by the hands of a hero. It would not come by her own hand as she engineered the end of the world, and would not represent any kind of redemptive sacrifice.

Her death would come here, now, at the hands of a villain. She should care, but it didn’t matter; nothing would, anymore, and were she honest, she’d do it all again.

The spear shot across the alley.

Amy closed her eyes.

Her death did not come. Amy opened her eyes. A dark figure stood between her and Blood; she could just make out the spear of Blood an inch from the figure’s chest.

_Skitter!_

“You could have been killed!” Amy heard Blood roar.

“Bulbasaur,” shouted Skitter. “Grab Amy!”

The sky turned dark as a swarm of insects descended upon the alley. A series of bangs echoed from somewhere above— Guns?

Amy felt vines hoist her up into the air. Her head drooped, her muscles still failing her; on the ground were dozens of rubber bullets—

She saw Skitter rush by, running away from where Blood had stood.

“Come on!”

* * *

“It’s not a lair, Amy,” Skitter said. He—Amy had learnt his pronouns—sat upon a chair that could have passed as a particularly gnarled tree. Skitter had lugged in the raw material; Amy had shaped it.

They’d been making furniture most of the afternoon. The mattress had been the trickiest to design, but Amy had come up with something at least moderately soft.

“If it was okay to do all this, Skitter,” said Amy, “I’d do it at home.”

“I’m _not_ crashing in a ‘lair.’ Besides, a villain wouldn’t have helped me. I mean, a place to stay, maybe, but… You don’t— I don’t know if you _can_ understand what _this_ means,” he said, gesturing at himself. “It’s… I don’t even know how to say it.”

“But—”

“You’re not Bonesaw, okay, Amy?” said Skitter. “She makes things wrong. You make things right. If she met me now, she’d just put me back. Boom, villain.”

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Fuck that.”

“The Director—”

“Fuck her.”

Amy looked at her hands, then to the corner where Bulbasaur happily munched on leaves.

“I keep messing up,” said Amy.

“No—”

“I— I shouldn’t have made Bulbasaur. Shouldn’t have left him with you. I mean, I don’t mean—”

“I know.”

“I just, it wasn’t fair to you. I should have, uh— told mom and, I mean, I still should but I, I can’t—”

Skitter placed his hand on Amy’s shoulder.

“It’s okay.”

“No, I— you don’t— Bulbasaur hurt people. It’s because of _me_.”

“Now you have him back.”

“But now Pikachu— I know I should tell Mom. But I— I’m just a fuck up—”

“You helped me.”

“Mom’d say that was fucking up, too.”

“Then fuck her.”

“Hey!” Amy protested. Then sighed. “I— I can’t—”

She was crying again. Skitter didn’t seem sure what to do.

“Amy…”

“I’m a fuck up, Skitter.”

“Amy…”

“I’m sorry, I’m not—” Amy gestured at her face. “I’m not looking for pity, or something, I just—”

“What? Amy, no…” said Skitter, awkwardly wrapping his arm around Amy’s shoulder as if unsure it was okay for him to do so.

“But…”

“Look,” Skitter said, his voice lowering. “I’m… I’m a fuckup, too, you know. More than you.”

“You don’t—”

“I think Blood’s my fault, Amy.”

“But…” Amy began. Had Skitter recognized Blood? Why? Unless… “The Bitches?”

“Two of them, anyway,” said Skitter. “I recognized… I recognized the hair.”

“They might not mean to,” said Amy. “Blood tried to control me. They could be controlling—”

“Why’s Blood obsessed with me, then?” asked Skitter.

“The Bitches didn’t need a reason.”

Skitter’s eyes fell to the floor. He picked at the skin around his fingernails.

“I told you I’m a fuckup, Amy.”

“Skitter…”

“The redhead,” he said. “She was… we were… She was my best friend. But then she started— you know Shadow Stalker? They started hanging out, and Shadow Stalker had a secret—not her cape identity; something else—and I—”

“She’s like you,” said Amy. “I mean, the other way around, but… Yeah. I know.”

“I outed her,” said Skitter. “I didn’t know! I— I don’t think I did. But Em— my friend was so different, and somehow—”

“But…” said Amy. “You said it was an accident.”

“I think— I don’t— I still don’t know how to, to _be_ like this,” said Skitter. “I don’t remember, did it slip out or did I just… just snap and say it…”

“That’s why they hate you.”

“I’m a fuck up,” said Skitter. “I deserved what—”

“No!” exclaimed Amy. “They still _never_ should have—”

“I put her in danger,” said Skitter. “She’s been _attacked,_ Amy. It’s happened more than once.”

“Two wrongs—”

“Whatever,” said Skitter. “Consequences are consequences. I blabbed, she got hurt. Still a fuckup.”

“Yeah,” said Amy, sighing. “Maybe you are. But so am I.”

* * *

“‘With a friend,’” Mom read the note from the couch’s other end. “‘May stay late.’”

“I left a note,” Amy defended.

“Besides, it’s barely seven,” said Victoria. “The friend’s Skitter, right?”

“It’s past seven,” Dad said.

“It’s the weekend tomorrow,” said Victoria.

“Get her some food, Victoria,” their mom said.

“You shouldn’t—” her father began, but her mother cut him off.

“We were worried, Amy.”

“Well, you can stop,” Amy said. “New Wave’s healer is safe and sound.”

A look passed from her mom to her dad and back again.

“I’ll be spending more time with my friend,” Amy continued.

“With Skitter?” her mother asked.

“So?”

“Knew it!” Victoria called from the kitchen.

“It was hardly a mystery, dear,” her father said. “Amy, Skitter is— well, she’s—”

“He.”

“Sorry, he’s—”

“Not our business,” Amy’s mother interrupted with a sigh. “Amy, just… don’t do anything rash, okay?”

Her eyes glanced across the welts marring Amy’s arm as if she didn’t quite believe whatever excuse Amy had given—Amy hoped her mom wouldn’t ask again; she wouldn’t be able to give the same answer.

“Amy’s not _rash_ Mom,” Victoria protested, leaning upon the archway between the kitchen and the den.

“You would know,” their mom muttered. “_Food_, Victoria.”

“It’s in the microwave!” Victoria said, gesturing towards the kitchen behind her.

“Amy, just…” Mom started, but did not seem to know how to finish.

“I’m not planning on ending the world tonight, Mom,” said Amy.

Her mom sighed. The microwave beeped.

“Pity,” she drawled. “Sounds like you’ll have plenty of time for sleep. _After_ you eat.”

“I—”

A plate of microwaved steak clanked upon the endtable.

“You’re welcome,” said Victoria. Amy’s nose scrunched up, but she carefully grabbed the napkin and used it to lift the hot plate to her lap.

“Thanks.”

“So, did you do your thing?” asked Victoria. “Is he, you know, a _he_ now?”

“Victoria!” exclaimed their mother.

“He was always a he,” snapped Amy. “And how do you even know, anyway?”

“You _just_ said he’s a he,” said Victoria. “And you know what I mean. Did you—”

“You do _not_ ask such things, Victoria,” said their mother. “You want _him_ asking about _your_ parts, Vicky?”

“Well…”

“That was rhetorical,” said Mom.

“It is _not_ appropriate, Victoria,” said Dad.

“It’s rude,” said Amy, not one to be left out.

Victoria looked at Amy as if she’d stabbed her in the back.

“You’re making it seem like it’s all you think he is,” Amy said.

“No, I just—” Victoria said.

“You’re being horrible,” said Amy.

“No, I—”

“Just go.”

“Fine.”

“That wasn’t very nice,” her father said.

“Well, _she_ wasn’t being very nice.”

“She didn’t know,” said her father.

“She didn’t listen,” muttered Amy.

“Look, Amy—”

“Amy’s right, dear,” said Mom.

Why had her mom just agreed with her? Amy stared, but—

“Eat, Amy.”

* * *

Amy woke to a pounding on her door.

“Wha—”

“Hey Amy,” her sister said. “Amy, you up?”

“I guess,” Amy groaned.

“Do you want—”

“Amy!” her mother called from downstairs. “Amy!”

“Yes?” called Amy.

“She wants to know—” her sister began, but—

“Amy? Amy!” her mother bellowed.

“Yes, mom!” Amy called again.

“She hears you!” Victoria shouted.

“Your father wants to know if you want toast or a croissant!”

“Croissant!”

“What?”

“Croissant, Mom!”

“She wants a croissant, Mom!” Victoria yelled.

Jeans, flannel shirt, and a quick brush of hair later, Amy descended the steps.

Mom was talking over the sizzling of bacon and clinking of dishes.

“—by the docks, yesterday, heard she was with Skitter— Amy! Do you know?”

“Know?”

“How Skitter knows Trainer,” her mother said. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you know Trainer?”

“Uh…”

“It’s just a question, Amy,” her mom said. “It was quite a fight, I heard. Trainer lost a yellow one, what do you call it?”

“Pikachu?” asked Victoria, who was already seated at the table.

“Yes, Pikachu, but got back her bulb thing,” said Mom.

“Bulbasaur,” muttered Amy.

“Yes, yes,” her mother said. “Orange juice or grapefruit?”

“Orange,” said Amy. “And—”

“Trainer’s a biotinker, isn’t she?” her mother asked. “Amy, be _careful_, alright?”

“Yes, mom.”

“But how’s Blood controlling the Pokémon?” asked Victoria.

“Something involving blood, no doubt,” their father said, laying the platter of bacon on the table before returning to the stove to tend to the eggs.

“Amy, any thoughts?” asked Mom.

Amy’s eyes widened. Did her mother know something?

“Why are you asking _me?_” Amy forced out, trying to keep her breath steady.

“You deal with blood, don’t you?”

“Not like _that_,” muttered Amy. “I don’t understand how it can do _that._”

“Well, she—”

“They,” said Amy. “Don’t they go by ‘they?’”

“They, then,” her mother allowed. “They can’t simply control all blood, otherwise they’d have killed us all instantly yesterday morning.”

Amy bit her lip, but after a moment decided to speak.

“What if they can control _their_ blood?” Amy asked. “The officer they, uh… blew up… They sent their blood into them, right? What if they can infect others’ blood, then control it?”

“And explode it?” asked Victoria.

“Maybe,” said Amy. “Or control it. Control _them._”

“Sounds like a Master ability,” said Mom. “I’ll bring it up with Emily.”

“Emily?” Amy asked.

“The Director,” Mom said. “I’m meeting with her for lunch, today. Victoria will be training, and your father and I have errands, so you’ll be on your own.”

“It’s okay,” said Amy. “I have stuff to do.”

“More like people to do,” muttered Victoria. “Didn’t think you liked boys.”

“What? I— Skitter’s just a—”

“It’s hardly a binary thing, Victoria,” said Mom. “Don’t bother your sister about it. And Amy, whatever you do, be safe. You don’t need to find yourself—”

“Mom!” Amy protested.

“I’m just saying, girls your age often do… things,” her mother said. “Things that can have consequences, and… If you need any… I…”

A strange look crossed her mother’s face: her cheeks pulled tight, her lips pulled back; was it regret?

“Just… stay safe.”

Amy nodded. But safety was a luxury for other people.

* * *

She was vaguely aware of the swing swaying beneath her: left, right, forward, back, twisting in strange chaotic circles. Her hand gripped the rope in frustration. She knew what she needed, but she couldn’t make them. They were devices. Technology. For all her powers, she was still only a biotinker.

There was more than one Blood. Amy needed more than one Pokémon. She needed bigger Pokémon. Stronger Pokémon. And if she had more Pokémon, she’d need a way to carry them. But she couldn’t—

The soft tap of a falling acorn startled her. She snorted and kicked at it. Perhaps if the physics of the Pokémon universe were real, she could use one. Could cross it with an apricot and make an apricorn and…

Unfortunately, matter could neither be created nor destroyed—not with Amy’s power, anyway.

Then again…

She couldn’t create or destroy matter, and she wasn’t sure how she’d make lifeforms do it, either. But she could _change_ matter… and, she realized, she could create lifeforms that could change it, too…

It wouldn’t be perfect, and it would need biomass to work, whether plants or small creatures, but that could be arranged.

She slipped from the swing. Picked up the acorn.

It was too small for a proper Pokéball, but Amy didn’t need a proper one. The structure was just right: seed, shell, and cupule; blueprint, protection, and reconstructor.

She could throw it at anything, and—

Amy nearly dropped it.

She hadn’t quite thought it through. What she was holding…

If she threw it at a person, it would deconstruct them, leaving behind an equal mass of raw material. They wouldn’t be dead; not really. She could throw it at something else, sacrifice some other life in trade and restore what she’d captured, but…

Why did this Pokéball seem so strange? So _wrong?_ Other capes’ powers and devices frequently worked through deconstruction and reconstruction.

Was she afraid of what it could do? Of what it could hold? Of _who_ it could hold?

She could almost see it flying at her; could almost feel herself being transformed into mere blueprint, not truly alive…

It terrified her.

It comforted her.

If trusted to the right person, it could save the world.

Amy told herself it was not important. It didn’t matter. She had to focus. _Her_ creation was being mastered, she reminded herself. If she stopped it… if she stopped Blood…

It’d be like Shadow Stalker had said: Amy would have done something heroic. _Goodness_, she thought, might no longer be a luxury for other people.

It was a pretty lie she could not help but think. She tried to remind herself of the truth: that her every step only brought her closer to the end; that if her every creation did not dig her grave deeper, it would only invite closer the day when the threat would not be Blood, but instead herself; the day when that Pokéball might indeed be necessary.

Was it self-preservation screaming at her to turn herself in? Or her conscience begging her to come clean and confess her sins? Whatever it was, it had been screaming and begging for far too long, and Amy could no longer bring herself to care: not for herself; not for her conscience; hardly for anything at all.

Amy didn’t know if she’d become the hero Shadow Stalker promised. Didn’t know if instead she might die. She didn’t much care.

She’d need more Pokéballs, and more Pokémon to put in them. Something heavy; tank-like. Not a Blastoise—not against Pikachu—but maybe a Venusaur, or even a Charizard. And given the morning’s misadventure, she needed something that could heal her, to whatever extent she could replicate her power. Perhaps a Chansey or two: even if the move on their card was _Scrunch_, they were always hanging around Nurse Joy.

And she’d need information.

She drew the burner.

_Wanna try to be a hero,_ she messaged Shadow Stalker. _Need info. Know where Blood is?_

_Should have something by evening_, Shadow Stalker texted back.

Time to get to work.

* * *

_Docks,_ Shadow Stalker wrote. _Building off of forty-seventh street. Bring your friend._

Amy closed the thread. Opened another.

_Docks, building off forty-seventh,_ she wrote Skitter. _Bring a swarm. A big one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Juff, Photondray, and others for feedback.
> 
> Next chapter reveals the big secret: who's Blood?


	8. The Very Best 2.4 — Bleed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: transphobia.

The rotting wood of the old dock building was lit ugly and orange beneath the aging street lamp, but Shadow Stalker didn’t seem to notice. Amy’s eyes kept drifting down to where Shadow Stalker’s elbow leaned against the rotten wall; again, she forced herself to yank them back.

Forty-seventh street was barely two blocks long. At one end was an old firehouse made of brick, its once-glass garage doors now boarded up. At the other end was water, docks, and perhaps a boat or two.

Both ends were dark and empty. No sign of Blood.

“My contact said he’d be here around nine,” Shadow Stalker said, speaking loudly over the roar of Skitter’s swarm overhead. _He?_ Was she talking about Blood? “So—”

“We were supposed to be taking the fight to _them_,” said Skitter, unimpressed. He’d been unimpressed since he’d laid eyes on Shadow Stalker. “Now you say _they’re_ coming to _us?_”

Shadow Stalker snorted, though at what Amy wasn’t sure.

“Patience, Taylor,” Shadow Stalker admonished.

Skitter stiffened.

“_Taylor?_” he growled, his voice low, nearly inaudible against his swarm’s drone. “_Tay_—”

“You don’t out heroes, Stalker!” yelled a voice from up the street near the firehouse.

Though it was too dark to see her, Amy’s throat tightened as she recognized her voice. Miss Militia wasn’t supposed to be here. If she recognized her— Perhaps if Amy kept quiet, or spoke at a low register, Miss Militia wouldn’t know, but—

Miss Militia wasn’t alone.

“Trainer? Skitter? What are you doing here?”

_Victoria._

Amy couldn’t breathe. Victoria _would_ recognize her. She’d have to, even if Amy didn’t say a word: Amy’s build, hair, posture, scarf, everything—

She took a step back, away from the old lamp’s light and down the street.

“We could ask you the same thing,” Skitter said, his voice cool.

“Ask her,” said Victoria, stepping into the lamplight, gesturing angrily at Shadow Stalker. When had she gotten so close? For a moment, she looked like a vengeful angel, her face backlit, her hair glowing under the yellow light. “Stalker’s not supposed to be out tonight.”

“She said she’d lead us to Blood,” said Skitter. “Obviously, she lied.”

Shadow Stalker pushed herself off the rotting wall. She glanced warily at Victoria and Miss Militia as if sizing them up, then briefly to Amy—Amy took another step away from the others and into the shadow—and finally to Skitter.

“I didn’t lie, Taylor,” she said, as softly as she could, her voice almost lost within the frantic buzzing of the insects overhead; they seemed to buzz louder with her every word.

“Blood?” asked Miss Militia, stepping into the light as Amy took another step away. “You know where they are?”

“She doesn’t,” Skitter said. “I’d know.”

He pointed to the sky, to his swarm blotting out the moonlight, but Shadow Stalker scoffed.

“Blood controls _her_ monsters,” said Shadow Stalker, jerking her head at Amy. The others briefly glanced her way, and Amy’s legs tensed as if ready to run. “Do you think he can’t control yours?”

Skitter glanced uncertainly up the street into the shadows by the firehouse. Miss Militia glanced over her shoulder.

“_Are_ they here, Shadow Stalker?” she asked. “Blood?”

_“‘They?’”_ Shadow Stalker said. She made a sound that was almost a laugh, yet fell somewhere just short: mocking; bitter; sad; desperate. “You really believe this gender shit, don’t you?”

Gender shit?

Amy tried to comprehend, but it didn’t make sense; it didn’t fit. Shadow Stalker wouldn’t _say_ something like that. For all her faults, she was hardly transphobic—not that trans people couldn’t be transphobic, but still, Shadow Stalker knew better—

The pieces slammed together with a horrifying jolt.

Shadow Stalker _wouldn’t_ say it.

_Blood_ would.

“Skitter! Swarm!” Amy yelled. It didn’t matter if she was outing herself; didn’t matter if Victoria would recognize her voice.

Everyone was too close, all gathered beneath the light, all within feet of Shadow Stalker, feet of _Blood_. They’d all be infected if they didn’t move—

Cartilage crunched as Shadow Stalker’s fist snapped up, not at Skitter or Victoria or even Miss Militia, but at her own nose.

Victoria was already rocketing away, her hand reaching for something on her belt, but the blood streaming from Shadow Stalker’s nose wasn’t aimed at her.

It hit Miss Militia in the face.

Militia twitched once, then again. For a moment, Amy was afraid Blood would detonate her like they had the PRT officer. Instead, they _took_ her.

Blood formed a weapon in Miss Militia’s hand. Aimed it up—not at the swiftly descending swarm, but at what they must have thought the bigger risk: Victoria.

Amy heard the gunfire over the frantic buzzing of the swarm now swirling all around her. She tried to spot Victoria—was she diving at Shadow Stalker?

“Trainer!” yelled Skitter. “Trainer, the swarm!”

Amy shook herself. Reached into her pocket. Tossed two Pokéballs into the air.

“Skitter!” she yelled. “Feed them!”

Skitter obliged. The swarm pulsed and churned as thousands of insects spiraled down into the Pokéballs, _through_ them, twisting, changing, morphing—

The roar of insects dimmed, replaced by the rush of wind as giant wings unfurled.

“The _fuck_?” Victoria yelled from overhead as Charizard and Zapdos took to the sky with giant thrusts of their wings.

Miss Militia turned to aim at where Victoria’s voice had been, but Victoria had already moved, diving at Shadow Stalker with two small devices held in her hands.

“Skitter!” Amy yelled. “Get the Pokéball! In case they try to infect—”

But Skitter was dodging streaks of blood. One then another then another shot past him. What—

A flash of lightning lit the sky.

“Fuck!” yelled Victoria, jerking out of her dive and narrowly avoiding the superheated air, eyes clenching shut, hands reaching up to her ears, devices still in tow.

_Pikachu_.

He landed back on the ground between Skitter’s attackers: one redheaded, one brunette, both with masks made of blood. They stood across the street, barely visible under the shadows.

“Zapdos!” yelled Amy. “Get Pikachu! Charizard, help Skitter!”

Skitter was pinned against the old rotting wall, scooting down the street towards Amy as he did his best to defend from his two attackers. The meager remnants of his swarm rushed to intercept the streams of blood flying at him from across the street; each wave of insects detonated in a fine red mist as he fought Blood for their control.

Miss Militia was aiming at the sky—at Victoria?—and Shadow Stalker was running—to something? From something? And Zapdos—

An angular wing furled protectively around Amy as Zapdos landed at her side. Held gently within his talons, struggling and twisting, cheeks sparking with what little charge he had left, was Pikachu.

Something lifted between Amy’s lungs. This, _this_ was what they needed. If she timed it right, if she waited for the right moment—

Amy quickly knelt down by Pikachu. Stretched her fingers through his fur. Touched the skin beneath.

She could feel the infection. Even now, it was trying to make Pikachu attack, to resist Zapdos’s talons holding him in place.

Amy scanned the battlefield for an opening: Charizard shielded Skitter from Shadow Stalker with a flash of flame; Miss Militia was turning to retaliate, her weapon shifting in her hand; the two other hosts were still firing on Skitter from across the street; but where was—

There! Victoria, moonlight gracing her hair, still shaking from the lightning’s near miss but readying herself to strike…

Victoria’s eyes locked on the two across the street. She’d dive any second…

Three… two… Across the street they were already raising shields of blood, but—

Victoria began her attack. So did Amy. She took Blood’s infection and destroyed it with every ounce of violence she could muster, twisting and tearing until its every molecule was rendered to shreds.

A flash of light; a bang; flame; they didn’t matter, because in a moment, she’d manage to—

It worked.

Miss Militia’s legs seemed to give out beneath her; she reached for support but found only Shadow Stalker, who herself was stumbling drunkenly into the rotting wall.

Across the street the pair’s shields of blood had collapsed. They dazedly tried to restore them, but it was too late: strange glowing nets ensnared them a second before they found themselves swallowed in containment foam.

Amy let out a breath, but her relief was short-lived: Miss Militia was getting back to her feet. Skitter was sprinting down the street—

_Charizard._

Amy climbed onto Zapdos’s back. She gripped him tightly as he took to the sky; one yard, then another, then another, then she lost count; it was terrifying, but—

Charizard would be okay, wouldn’t he? The rocket hadn’t hit him, but the firehouse behind him; brick and dust everywhere—

Far below she could see the brick shift as Charizard tried to pull himself to his feet, but already Miss Militia was readying another shot.

“Get her!” Amy yelled into Zapdos’s ear.

She’d expected electricity. Instead, Zapdos dived.

Amy screamed.

She gripped his wings as tightly as she could. The ground rushed towards her as Zapdos angled directly at the building with the rotting wall, at a spot just between Miss Militia and Shadow Stalker. The wall—the _ground_— they’d hit it any second—

Amy felt blood rush from her head as Zapdos yanked up. One wing caught Miss Militia, the other Shadow Stalker. Each slammed into the wall; Miss Militia’s arm snapped as she fell on it.

“Land!” Amy commanded, but Zapdos was already touching down.

She slid off him and grabbed Miss Militia’s hand.

Amy’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she killed Blood’s infection. She was about to start on the arm—it’d take her a minute or two, but Miss Militia could help—

“Panacea?” said Miss Militia, her voice barely audible.

Amy froze.

What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t run— couldn’t leave Miss Militia, leave Skitter, leave any of them, and—

“Dad!”

Amy and Miss Militia turned.

Up the street stood Danny Hebert, blood flowing from a cut on his hand and into the now-standing Charizard’s mouth.

But— He— Danny—

Amy felt Miss Militia’s hand squeeze hers as he climbed onto Charizard’s back. Danny must have been infected; if Blood operated out of the Docks, then he could’ve been caught at work; it must be, it had to be; he couldn’t actually _be_ Blood; he wasn’t a parahuman—

“Time to come home, Taylor,” Danny called. His voice was too natural—too _his_—and his statement… Home. _Home._ Amy felt her heart sink…

A few yards away, Skitter stood, his breathing unsteady. He wouldn’t go, would he? _Would he?_ Would Amy, if her mother stood feet away?

Amy wasn’t going to find out.

“No!” she yelled. “Zapdos—”

“Stop!”

Victoria’s scream came not from above, but from just feet away.

She was staring intently at Shadow Stalker, as if her intense stare could somehow control her.

Shadow Stalker stood unnaturally still. She was holding something up to her neck; it glinted yellow under the streetlight—

A knife.

The blade rested against Shadow Stalker’s neck.

“I’ll trade you,” said Danny. “Girl for girl.”

Victoria tried to inch closer. Sophia pulled the knife tighter against her throat; Amy could have sworn she saw blood—

“He’s not a girl,” said Victoria.

“No, he’s not,” Danny answered. “But my _daughter_ is.”

Amy was certain she saw Shadow Stalker flinch.

“Fuck you,” Victoria growled.

“Give her to us,” said Shadow Stalker. Her eyes flicked to Amy. “Or not even _you_ will be able to patch me together again, Dallon.”

Amy’s eyes met Victoria’s, but her sister’s face betrayed frustratingly little: a slight raise of an eyebrow; a small quirk of a lip.

“Second time you’ve outed a hero tonight, Blood,” Miss Militia said, hissing as she tried to rise.

“Not a hero,” said Amy, quietly. Miss Militia snorted.

“What do you want with him?” Miss Militia called.

“You’ve changed her,” said Danny. “Changed my _daughter. Mutilated_ her!”

He lifted his hand. The cut across his palm reopened. A stream of blood flowed from it, forming a sphere that hovered threateningly in the air.

“She’ll be joining _us_, now,” Danny stated.

“Or,” said Shadow Stalker, jerking the knife, “I’ll mutilate _this._”

“Fuck you,” Miss Militia spat.

“No,” said Victoria. “Shadow Stalker’s a hero, she wouldn’t want you to—”

“_I’ll go._”

“Skitter, no—”

“I’ll go.”

Danny sighed. A kind, gentle smile crossed his face, more disgusting for its gentleness than any darker smile ever could hope to be.

“Skitter,” said Miss Militia. “I know why you’re doing this. _Don’t._”

“I have to,” said Skitter.

“You don’t,” said Miss Militia.

“She’s not worth— Skitter, she— She’s—”

It was unfathomable. Shadow Stalker was the reason Skitter had triggered; she had _tormented_ him, but—

But what could Amy say?

What could she say that Skitter didn’t already understand much more intimately than Amy?

“Please, Skitter, don’t do this…”

Skitter took a step towards his father.

Danny’s sphere of blood shot forth.

Amy knelt, transfixed. Skitter’s arms and legs twitched violently as the blood took him.

Then his muscles relaxed. He looked almost at peace…

But it wasn’t him.

Just his body.

Just Blood.

Just _Danny._

“Go!” Miss Militia yelled, shoving Amy with her good arm.

Amy ran at Shadow Stalker.

The knife began to slice. Streaks of blood shot at Amy, some hitting, most missing, but none affecting her. She reached her fingers reached behind Shadow Stalker’s head to the bare skin on the back of her neck, and—

She caught Shadow Stalker as she collapsed. Destroyed Blood’s infection. Patched the cut—

“Trainer!” called Miss Militia. “Skitter!”

Amy ran, but it was too late: Skitter had already climbed onto Charizard. She couldn’t catch them, but— Amy changed course.

She ran at Zapdos, leapt onto his back, and took off after Charizard. She could catch them—

Zapdos jerked to the side as something intercepted them.

_Victoria._

“What are you—”

Amy turned to look just in time to see Victoria flying straight at her.

Zapdos dove out of the way. Amy could feel the rush of air as Victoria passed overhead.

Then Victoria appeared in front of them again. Amy almost didn’t catch it, but as Zapdos began to turn, she saw the glint of silver under the moonlight—

“Stop!” Amy yelled, pulling as hard as she could against Zapdos’s neck.

She slammed into Zapdos as he flapped his wings and pulled himself to a sudden stop.

Victoria hovered in the air a dozen feet ahead, knife to her neck.

Amy had thought Shadow Stalker’s blood had missed her. But Blood hadn’t been aiming for her: they knew it was pointless; knew they couldn’t control her. They’d been aiming for her sister.

“Which will win?” Victoria yelled over the roaring wind. “The forcefield, or the strength?”

Amy shook her head, but—

“Let’s find out.”

A jerk of Victoria’s hand—

Victoria fell from the sky, blood streaming behind her.

Amy dove.

Zapdos pushed as fast as he could, air rushing past him. They were getting closer. Amy could see Victoria just feet ahead. They had to make it; had to catch her—

Zapdos pivoted. A sharp cry—

Amy tried to see, tried to look down; the ground was approaching so fast— where had Victoria gone?

Zapdos pumped his wings and they touched down not far from where they’d taken off. Amy slid down—

_Victoria._

Zapdos had caught her, but she’d lost so much blood— was _still_ losing blood.

She grabbed her sister’s wrist.

Amy felt like laughing. Victoria was still alive! The relief was all-encompassing. Her sister would be alright. The slit throat was easy to heal, and Blood’s infection barely an afterthought. Victoria would need time to recover from the blood loss, but…

She propped Victoria up against the firehouse’s wall, then collapsed beside her.

The street was covered in rubble. Bits of brick, shards of wood, chunks of cement, all covered in a layer of dust… had the fight been so violent?

One of the Pokéballs lay nearby; Amy could almost touch it…

Amy sighed.

People would be here soon. Heroes. PRT. They’d take her in. She should go with them. She didn’t know if she could.

“Amy?” Victoria whispered. “Knew it.”

Victoria’s hand reached for Amy.

Amy yanked hers away.

“Don’t touch me!” Amy yelled. She took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, I—”

She looked at her sister, then at the Pokéball a few feet away.

Slowly, her hand shaking, Amy reached forward and grabbed it.

Her other hand reached for her sister’s. Victoria squeezed it comfortingly, but Amy shook her head.

She flipped her sister’s hand over. Placed the Pokéball within it.

“This’ll…” Amy started, but the words failed her. “This’ll… It’ll hold me. Just… be quick. Please.”

“Amy, what?” Victoria asked, her voice hoarse.

“They’ll be here soon. The PRT and the heroes. I don’t know if I can… If I…”

“If you can?”

“They’ll want to take me in,” said Amy. “I’ve abused my power. I’ve been selfish. I’ve probably broken dozens of laws, I—”

“You’re not a villain, Amy.”

“Mom would disagree.”

“She wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” said Amy. “I…”

Bulbasaur, Pikachu, Charizard; Blood had taken each in turn and—

“You saved me,” said Victoria.

“I love you.”

“You’re my sister. Of course you do.”

“No…” said Amy. She could feel a wetness around her eyes; she tried to hold it in, tried not to let Victoria see… “Sisters don’t— Not like this.”

“Like…” Victoria started. “Oh.”

“Just… Just throw it at me. It’ll hold me. They can decide—”

“They?”

“Mom, the Director,” said Amy. “I— they can send me to the Birdcage, if they think that’ll hold me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Victoria, her voice straining painfully.

“I told you,” Amy said through a sob, “I’m practically a villain—”

“No, Amy,” said Victoria. “This is something else.”

“I have to be stopped.”

“There _is_ something wrong with you,” Victoria said. Amy couldn’t look at her; she could hear the tears in her sister’s voice. “But you’re not a villain, Amy. Panacea, Trainer, it doesn’t matter…”

Victoria reached out again, her hand shaking.

Amy jumped up. Backed away. She couldn’t—

“You’re a hero, Amy.”

Amy tried to back away. She wasn’t. She’d failed. She’d been supposed to stop Blood, but they’d gotten away again, and now—

Victoria grabbed her arm.

“I’m not,” said Amy. “I failed, I couldn’t stop them—”

“Come home, Amy.”

Amy shook her head.

“No, I—”

“I won’t let you leave, Amy. I’ll follow you.”

“No.”

“You can’t stop me,” Victoria said. She tried to lift herself from the wall; she was already starting to hover.

“I…”

Amy trailed off. She glanced down at Victoria’s hand, still holding her arm.

Amy placed her own hand over it.

Victoria’s eyes widened. She shook her head—

“Amy, no, please—”

“I’m sorry, Victoria,” Amy said. “For everything. Sleep.”

Victoria’s eyes shut.

Gently, Amy lay Victoria once more against the wall.

Amy climbed on Zapdos. She could hear the vans approaching, Armsmaster’s motorcycle ahead of them.

Zapdos’s wings started to beat.

They flew into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a ton to Juff, Photondray / @mondrae205, and others for catching several mistakes, from spelling errors to missed threads of action.
> 
> Did you know that all this time—ever since I was a kid—I thought Zapdos was spelled _Zapados_? Mind blown. Is this an alternate universe? Some Berenstain Bears kind of thing?
> 
> This chapter revealed the story’s main secrets. Now we have just 2–5 chapters left:
> 
> \- 3.1 Hard light.  
\- 3.2 I know.  
\- 3.3 My cause  
\- Epilogue?
> 
> It depends. I’m not 100% sure about the chapter breaks between “Hard light,” “I know,” and “My Cause.” And there’s always the off-chance of another interlude, but at the moment, the words aren’t coming.


	9. To Catch Them 3.1 — Villain.

Flickering orange bathed Zapdos’s yellow stripes as he landed across from her burning lair. Blood and Charizard had beaten her there. Skitter wouldn’t have wanted to say where it was, but as part of Blood—

“Wait!” yelled a firefighter as Amy slid off Zapdos and rushed towards at the blaze. “You can’t—”

The deadbolt tore through her lair’s rotting doorframe as Amy shoved her way inside. Even through her scarf the steam and smoke assaulted her lungs, but still she rushed through living room and kitchen and into the back bedroom where—

“Bulbasaur,” she whispered.

Amy couldn’t move. She could only stare, transfixed, at what remained… at what still burned…

She’d created life, and had allowed that life to be taken from her. She should’ve felt guilt.

All she felt was horror. All she imagined was his final moments…

She was vaguely aware of coughing, of feeling faint… Perhaps these would be her final moments, too…

Gloved hands grabbed her. They placed something over her face. She stumbled as they guided her somewhere— struggled against them, tried to get back to Bulbasaur; was she yelling? What was she saying? Was she crying his name? Screaming her pain and regret?

She couldn’t hear herself. Couldn’t understand her own words.

Amy threw the hands off her as they reached outside. Tore the oxygen mask off her face, her scarf with it.

“You need to stay—” the firefighter began, her voice pleading with Amy, but—

“Back off!” Amy said, a hoarse cough as much as a scream.

She stepped unsteadily towards Zapdos.

The firefighter hesitated, then grabbed Amy’s shoulder. Amy tried to tear her arm away, but the firefighter held firm, guiding Amy to Zapdos and helping her climb on.

“If you won’t stay,” said the firefighter. “At least take this.”

She placed a metal canister in Amy’s palm. _Oxygen._

“Breathe,” the firefighter commanded. “It’ll help.”

Amy looked at her for a moment. The firefighter had pulled away her mask—when had she done that? Amy couldn’t remember—and was looking into Amy’s eyes with an expression Amy couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t fear, but was somehow familiar…

Finally, Amy nodded.

Zapdos took off.

Amy breathed through the mouthpiece as Zapdos wove through downtown’s buildings. She didn’t know where to land. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what she wanted; she only knew that she didn’t want to go to the Birdcage, and she didn’t want to die.

Did that make her a villain? And if not, didn’t everything else?

She’d played God, abused her powers, created _life_, and had let that life fall into the hands of evil. She’d done things she was never supposed to do, things she had been ordered not to do, even if they felt right.

But she hadn’t done those things because it was right. She’d done them because she was selfish. She wanted to be a _real_ hero, wanted to be able to fight like her sister, and so she created life to fight for her. She wanted Skitter to be happy, and so she helped him change his body.

She’d used her powers in ways she wasn’t supposed to, because _she wanted to._

It was villainy. Wasn’t it?

Zapdos landed on the roof of the condemned cathedral. The roof creaked beneath him. He took a step—

The roof collapsed. They fell.

Black.

* * *

“Trainer?” Amy felt herself being shaken. “Trainer!”

She grabbed the hand shaking her as her eyes snapped open. Armor, helmet: PRT. Before she could think twice, she grabbed the officer’s wrist on the bare skin just behind her glove, and with a twitch of power knocked her out.

“Trainer, stop!” yelled another as Amy scrambled to her feet.

She dove at him. He tried to dodge, his hand going for his belt, but Amy grabbed his arm. She tried to find the skin but he yanked—

“Hey!” he yelled as they closely missed a jagged hole in the carpeted floor. “Look, just—”

But Amy finally found skin, and the second PRT officer fell. She took a deep breath, but there wasn’t time to lose. Somewhere below her she could hear more of them.

Where was she? A railing to her right looked like it would fall at the gentlest nudge. Below laid the crumbling remains of Brockton Bay’s old cathedral, moonlight streaming through its stain glass windows—half of them were shattered—the floor below covered with rubble that had never been cleared after a battle a decade past.

A quick check reassured her that she hadn’t injured the officers: they’d wake in a couple minutes without so much as a headache.

She took an earpiece, then stepped around them, the floor creaking threateningly below her.

Where was Zapdos? The light was barely enough to see by. Had he fallen through to below?

No: she could see the tip of a wing caught beneath a moonbeam. Was he injured? It wouldn’t be long before—

“Anything on the balcony?” asked a voice Amy recognized, remarkably clear over the intercom. “Group six, this is the Director. Do you copy? Cameras on six.”

Amy knelt beside Zapdos and rested her hand on his wing.

She sighed in relief. Just a broken rib. Easy to heal: not much mass in a flying creature’s bones.

“Group four and five,” the director’s voice spoke again, substantially less clear—the cameras must use too much bandwidth. “Head to balcony. Careful. Cameras on four and five. Careful—”

Amy could hear their boots thudding against the stairs as she clambered onto Zapdos. He stepped towards the balcony’s edge; Amy could see them both silhouetted in the beams of flashlights being shone past them.

“Foam her!” the director yelled over the intercom.

But Zapdos had already jumped. For a moment they fell, and then Zapdos’s strong wings propelled them across the hall and through the shattered remains of the rose window at its end.

Wind rushed past her face as Zapdos flew higher and higher. She could see the barest glimmer of dawn peeking above the horizon in greenish-blue sky. A laugh escaped her. She’d escaped them.

Under the wind’s roar she could just make out voices on the intercom—

“—they’re alright, but she stole Lexi’s earpiece.”

Did the Director laugh? Amy couldn’t tell.

“Good. Control—“

The Director’s voice cut out.

Amy pulled Zapdos into a turn, banking towards the forests to the west. They could hide there. Amy could build a shelter from the trees, and turn most anything into food. It’d be quiet. Lonely. But it wouldn’t be—

“Trainer?” asked the Director. “Trainer, we know you took an earpiece. Can you hear us?”

“Uh… Trainer?” her mother’s voice. “It’s just— Emily, is this line just—”

“Just us. Her end’s receiving. Can’t tell if she’s listening.”

“Amy? Amy, you need to come—”

“No,” said Amy. “No, I’m not coming in. I— I don’t think I— I can’t go to— I haven’t hurt anyone, I— I don’t deserve—”

She didn’t, did she? Maybe she’d abused her power, and maybe it made her a villain, but she hadn’t killed. Hadn’t stolen anything or hurt anyone any worse than any other hero might have done. If she wasn’t a biotinker—

“Amy,” the Director said. “It’s okay—”

“No,” said Amy. “You’ll— you’ll foam me, and take me to— to the—“

“No, Amy, we just want— Shit!”

Even over the wind, Amy could hear the yells in the background.

“Carol?” the Director asked. “Carol, what’s—”

“Mom?” Amy screamed.

“Amy,” her mother yelled, her voice ragged as if she were running. “If you’re still there, _don’t come home_. Keep the earpiece, I’ll call you. Go to the PRT building downtown, they’ll—”

“Carol, what’s happening? Control, get the damned capes down there!” yelled the Director. “Biohazard suits, all of them. And get me eyes on the house. Amy, stay away, we’ll handle this. They’ll be okay. Carol? Carol, can you hear me—”

Amy’s heart raced; her insides twisted.

She tried to convince herself it was a trick—_pleaded_ with herself that it was a lie, that they were trying to get her home so they could arrest the dangerous biotinker villain.

But it didn’t matter. None of it did. None of what she’d done. None of what might be done to her.

Because it might be real. It probably was.

And though she didn’t want to be caught, she couldn’t leave them. She couldn’t leave her family.

“Amy,” said the Director. “Come to the PRT building downtown, we can protect you—”

“I can’t,” Amy said. “I can’t leave them.”

Amy pulled Zapdos around.

“Amy…”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Fucking capes,” the Director muttered with a sigh. “Control, advise the team. Shit.”

Amy pushed Zapdos as fast as she could. The air was loud enough she was sure it was damaging her ears, but even still she pushed him faster, rewriting his biology on the fly, turning fat into muscle, dropping electric charge cells in favor of reinforcing his straining bones.

Beneath them houses raced by, quickly giving way to buildings that just as quickly got taller. Zapdos barely noticed them, weaving around them with grace.

And then Amy saw, lit as much by moonlight as the early dawn: smoke. Beneath it, flickering orange light…

Zapdos put on another burst of speed, as if he knew home without ever having seen it. He dove, and home came closer…

It was ablaze. Amy felt something twist painfully in her chest; her cheeks felt wet; it was hard to breathe…

“Amy,” the Director said. “Tell us when you’re there—”

“I— I’m here…”

“What do you see?” the Director asked. “Amy? What do you see? If you can help us—”

“Fire,” Amy said. “The house—”

“And your parents?”

It didn’t take long to find them. They were standing on the driveway, struggling to fight off a swarm of bugs accompanying a swirling mess of blood. Amy’s father was blasting away as many bugs as he could; beside him stood Amy’s mom, her broad shield of hard light trying to shield them from the blood.

“Amy, do you see them?” the Director asked.

“Driveway,” said Amy. “There’s a swarm of bugs, and blood, too. He’s going to infect—”

“Of course he is,” muttered the Director. “Help will be there soon. Can you—”

But the flashing lights in the distance were still too far away, and the swarm was encroaching on her parents.

Amy pushed Zapdos into a dive, even as she knew she couldn’t make it in time. The blood and swarm swallowed her father as her mother shifted into a ball of light.

The swarm cleared as Amy neared, just in time for Amy to see one of her father’s explosive spheres of light heading for her with impeccable aim. She twisted away, down towards the house; the heat of the flames scorched her cheeks as the ball of light shot past her—

“Amy!” she heard, but—

Bang!

The blast slammed Amy against Zapdos, ramming them through the house’s burning roof and onto the attic’s plywood floor. The floor held them for but a moment until, too weakened by the fire, it sent them tumbling into the room below.

Amy bounced off a bed and onto familiar soft carpet. Somewhere along the way her leg must have broken; the pain hit her as she touched the floor, but before she could scream Zapdos’s body tumbled onto her chest and knocked the air from her lungs.

She struggled to breathe, barely able to see through the pain. It took her a few moments to recognize the room.

The laptop, the headphones, the nightstand, the familiar carpet beneath her— it was her room, and it was burning. Fire was everywhere; the smoke already filling her lungs. Amy tried to reach her scarf to cover her face, but she couldn’t grasp it; she could barely move her arms.

Zapdos began to stir. If he could still fly, he’d grab her and—

Shards of burning wood and drywall rained down around Amy as Charizard crashed his way into the room. The floor shook as he landed, kicking up burning embers that stung Amy’s face.

With one of his legs, Charizard shoved Zapdos down onto Amy, and again the air left her lungs.

“You ruined her!” Danny Hebert screamed from his seat on Charizard’s back. “She’ll never— I was supposed to— She was my girl! And now you—”

He cut himself off and laughed bitterly.

“And _I’m_ supposed to be the villain. All I’ve done is try to protect her. Lung. Kaiser. Bakuda. _They_ were villains. And _you…_”

Charizard leaned forward, until his snout was right in her face. If she could just touch him— but her arms were still trapped beneath Zapdos.

Just above the arches of Charizard’s eyes, she saw Danny peering down at her.

“You already know what you are.”

Charizard took breath, and Amy could see the pilot lights at the back of his throat ignite—

“She’s my _daughter_!”

Charizard reared back as an axe of light slashed through the air. The second swipe sliced a gash in his side, and Charizard recoiled.

Arms reached beneath Amy’s shoulders and pulled, wrestling her away from Zapdos even as Zapdos tried again to rise. Amy’s leg yanked free, prompting a scream that quickly turned to coughs.

Amy could hardly see through the smoke— was it smoke? It wasn't wispy, only dim and gray, and somewhere through it lay a sea of red and orange. Something lightened—was she being carried?—and somewhere far away she heard a screech. Zapdos?

A flash of something—

A roar—

Only gray…

Amy woke coughing, propped up against a tree trunk, a cacophony of shouts and gunfire all around her. Above, Zapdos chased Charizard through the dawning sky, his attacks splashing against Danny’s blood and doing little to stop Charizard’s attack runs on PRT officers below. The PRT was equally ineffective, Charizard never diving low enough for their weapons to reach.

Around Amy stood the remnants of the copse of trees; the old swing hung by a single rope.

“Amy,” her mother rasped, “Are you alright?”

“Leg…”

“Pity you can’t— make a healer,” her mother joked through her own coughs. A series of bangs echoed from near the gunfire; her dad’s power.

“‘fraid to,” Amy said. “You… Why…?”

“Couldn’t lose you,” her mother said. “Amy…”

Amy felt her mother’s hands grasp hers in a tight squeeze— a touch for touching’s sake and nothing else. Amy tried to keep the tears in her eyes; she couldn’t let her mother see, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.

“Victoria?” Amy asked.

“Hospital,” her mother said. “She’ll be okay. You saved her.”

Her mother let go one of her hands, then after a moment’s search placed within it a small object. The life inside was immediately recognizable: the Pokéball she had given Victoria.

“It’d work…” Amy said, half-hearted, turning her head away. Above her, Zapdos’s screech pierced the air. “Perfect stasis. I wouldn't—”

Amy broke into a coughing fit.

“Shh, Amy…” her mother said, but Amy—

“Wouldn’t even hurt,” said Amy. “Would just… stop…”

A gentle finger pulled softly upon Amy’s chin. After a moment, just as the finger began to let go, Amy gave into its touch, allowing her face to turn to meet her mother’s. Amy could just make out the pained look on her mother’s face; there was something in it Amy couldn’t understand.

“I don’t want you to stop, Amy,” her mother said, her soft voice almost lost beneath another series of bangs.

Amy shook with a cough that was also a cry.

“I’m not— I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t, shouldn’t—” Amy tried to say, but she couldn’t find the right words. “I’m not trying to get out of trouble, or—”

“I know,” her mother said. “It’s okay. It’s okay to cry, sweetie.”

Amy cried all the harder.

Heavy, boot-clad footsteps rushed by them. Charizard swooped low overhead, and someone screamed. A second later Zapdos chased after, emitting a lightning bolt that dissipated as it met a shield of blood.

Several more people rushed by. Shadow Stalker trailed them, recognizable only through her crossbow; her biohazard suit obscured the rest of her. Amy’s eyes followed them as they passed, headed north through the neighbors’ yards, towards the latest series of bangs— towards Amy’s father.

“You can go fight, Mom,” said Amy.

“No.”

“But Dad…”

“But you.”

Amy looked down at her hands… The one her mother still held… The other, still holding the Pokéball.

“Perfect stasis…” Amy muttered.

“Amy, no.”

“No, Mom— Perfect stasis! They’d just stop, Mom. Blood would just _stop_. Zapdos!”

With a screech Zapdos pulled away from his chase.

A moment’s hesitation, then Amy’s mom grabbed the Pokéball. She stood and glanced around as if searching for something, then—

“You! Get Shadow Stalker over here!”

Shadow Stalker looked pissed—not in her face, obscured by suit and gas mask, but in the way she held her shoulders: tense, defensive.

“What?” she asked. “Skitter’s—”

“Stalker, guard A— guard Trainer,” Amy’s mother commanded. “Keep her safe for me. Please.”

Shadow Stalker looked back towards the north and the sounds of raging battle, then with an angry, frustrated sigh, reluctantly nodded her head.

“Fine,” she ground out. “I’ll— What the—”

She leapt away as Zapdos landed.

“Mom, take Zapdos. Go!”

Amy’s mom started to say something, but words seemed to fail her. Instead, she squeezed Amy’s hand, then with a backwards glance, she climbed onto Zapdos, and the two flew away.

“Great,” Shadow Stalker muttered. “This is just great.”

“Skitter—”

“I can reach him,” said Shadow Stalker. “I know I can.”

“Then go.”

“I said I’d protect you.”

Shadow Stalker looked up into the green and blue shades of the dawn sky where Zapdos chased after Charizard, her hand twitching; itching, Amy thought, to do something, _anything_. Though Zapdos was faster, Danny’s shields and spears of blood made him next to unreachable. If he could just be distracted—

“Trust me?” Amy asked. “Please?”

Shadow Stalker slowly nodded.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Shadow Stalker sprinted off, leaving Amy on her own. She felt exposed, but the sounds of battle were far away: her father, now several houses away; Skitter, somewhere near him; her mom, flying up in the sky…

Then Charizard changed course—not for Amy, but headed north, Zapdos on his tail. The sounds of battle changed. They began to grow nearer; the bangs more frequent and almost desperate.

Amy tried to see, but the morning light was still dim. She could just see the patterns of bright flashing lights backlighting a shadowed figure running as fast as she could, stumbling beneath the weight of someone on her back: Shadow Stalker.

A bright sphere of light shot at Shadow Stalker’s legs—not as bright as it could be, but it’d easily break her legs. Amy held her breath, but a PRT officer jumped between the orb and Shadow Stalker, spraying containment foam in a desperate attempt to stop it. It detonated as it hit the foam, throwing the officer to the ground.

Shadow Stalker stumbled backwards as Charizard swept by in his lowest attack run yet, Zapdos just behind him. He released a vibrant burst of intense flame; it stuck to the ground in bright streaks of burning fire right in front of Shadow Stalker, blocking her path.

Several PRT officers sprayed containment foam in an attempt to quell the blaze; others closed in behind Shadow Stalker, trying to protect her.

Shadow Stalker climbed across the still-hardening foam and ran, spheres of light and streams of foam crossing all around her. She stumbled as nearby explosions rocked her, but kept going, getting closer and closer until—

“I _hope_ you have a plan,” Shadow Stalker said through heaving breaths, laying Skitter on the ground as gently as she could.

The cacophony of battle gave way to the roar of wind.

Charizard was landing, surrounded by a massive shield of blood. Some flowed from Charizard himself, through the slice Amy’s mother had cut in Charizard’s side; still more streamed from the bodies littering the ground.

Danny slid off Charizard’s side, seemingly unconcerned by the containment foam splashing against his shield.

A bang and a flash of heat were followed by screams as Amy’s father arrived. He walked through the blood shield and stood next to Danny.

“Trainer…” Shadow Stalker urged.

Amy shook herself and reached for Skitter. Her fingers searched for the seam in his suit; she forgot how it opened. Shadow Stalker leaned over to help, but Danny—

“You know what you are, Amy Dallon,” said Danny, his voice calm, cool. Beside him, blood began to collect into a spear, long and sharp. Amy barely noticed; she had to find—

Shadow Stalker finally managed to rip open the seam near Skitter’s neck, and at last Amy’s fingers found skin. Amy looked up at Danny, then behind him, searching… She had to time it—

“You’re a villain,” Danny said.

Amy’s eyes snapped back to Danny’s. Something tightened deep in her throat, and even as she felt the smoke-filled air enter and leave her lungs, she felt as though she were not breathing at all, as if she couldn’t remember _how_ to breathe.

Behind Charizard a shadow descended through the dawn’s turquoise sky. Amy tore her eyes away from Danny’s and to her mother, sliding off Zapdos’s back. Her mother shot her a quick, soft smile, and everything loosened. Amy's could breathe, could _see_—

“No,” said Amy. “I’m not. I’m not a villain.”

Amy struck. She reached through Skitter; grabbed every cell under Danny’s control; shredded them.

Danny fell to his knees, his face pulled tight in pain. Around him, the blood shield sputtered and collapsed into a rain of blood, coating the ground in a layer of dark red.

He didn’t take long to recover: already Amy could see the blood lifting back into the air, struggling to reform the shield, but it was too late:

Amy’s mom had already thrown the Pokéball.

It hit.

Flesh twisted and morphed as Danny passed through the ball and became something else: a swarm of butterflies which, without Skitter to control them, flew off into the dawn.

Amy’s father collapsed, Danny’s control cut, and Amy allowed her eyes to close.

It was done.

Amy heard people moving all around her, voices laced with relief trying to take stock of what remained in the battle’s aftermath.

“Amy?” Skitter’s voice called.

“She’ll be okay,” said Shadow Stalker.

“I won’t,” Skitter said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, you know,” said Skitter. “I’m sorry for outing you.”

“Look, Skitter,” Shadow Stalker said. “I shouldn’t have, I mean, we shouldn’t have—”

“I put you in danger.”

“It’s still not right,” said Shadow Stalker. “You…” Shadow Stalker’s voice lowered to a whisper. “You, uh, triggered, right?”

Amy didn’t hear Skitter reply, but felt he might have nodded.

“Thanks,” said Shadow Stalker. “For saving me, I mean.”

“I— Same,” said Skitter. “You didn’t have to.”

“You saved me. I pay my debts.”

Nearby a PRT officer was helping a paramedic lift a colleague onto a stretcher. _Blood loss and puncture wound_, they said, but he would live.

“I still don’t like you,” Skitter said.

“Yeah. I don’t expect you do.”

“Don’t hate you, either.”

Shadow Stalker snorted.

Amy felt someone sit down on either side of her. Shadow Stalker and Skitter? She opened her eyes—

To her left sat her mother; to her right her father. Through the branches she could see what remained of the house, the walls half-fallen; what remained scorched and brittle and soaked with water. Amy wasn’t sure what to feel…

“It’s okay sweetie,” her mother said, wrapping her arm around Amy’s shoulders. “We’ve got you.”

Amy let her eyes shut.

Everything gently faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter. Amy with family, Danny/Blood defeated, and Amy knows what she is.
> 
> All that’s left is an epilogue.


	10. To Catch Them 3.2 — Of Scars and Stolen Waffles

Her mother’s arm around her shoulder, its warm contact diluted through cold clothing and blue raincoat, comforted Amy on her daily walk around the house. Now and then Amy would feel her mother’s long fingers squeeze her arm as if, lacking their presence, Amy would somehow vanish. The touch was as personal as any touch should be, Amy knew, but personal though it was, she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel its luxury.

“_Now_ it stops raining,” her mother said as they arrived back at the house they had rented.

“We didn’t have to go,” said Amy. “We could have stayed in. I’d’ve been okay not walking for a day.”

“Your leg needs the exercise,” her mom said, shoving open the door—it had a habit of sticking when it rained. “Besides, no harm in a little rain.”

“I guess.”

Her mom started to say something, but seemed to lack the words. Instead, she gripped Amy’s still-wet hand.

“You should dry off,” she said. “Take a warm shower.”

“Hot water’s probably busted again,” Amy said; she’d intended it as a joke, but the words left her more softly than she’d intended.

“It better not be,” said Mom, though the landlord was not present to hear the threat in her tone. Her voice softened. “Amy… It’s alright to— to not be fine. If— I mean I’m here if you— well, if you need.”

_I’m fine,_ Amy began, but the lie couldn’t find its way to her lips. “I’m going to go shower.”

Amy barely heard the water as she turned the faucet; barely felt it fall upon her skin. _Dissociation,_ Dr. Thenison had called it.

Eventually she found herself laying on her bed, wet towel beneath her. How had she gone from talking with her mother to showering to laying down? Had she forgotten? No, the memories were just lethargic. Memory could sometimes be like that, Amy knew, but lately she doubted herself.

It was raining again.

She threw on some clothes—nothing complicated—then shuffled across the room and cracked open her door.

“Pikachu?” she called.

“He’s in here,” Taylor called back from his own room one door over.

His door was open. He lay on his bed, idly petting Pikachu as he scribbled in his notebook with one of Dad’s fountain pens—he was slowly corrupting Taylor, just as he had Victoria before him; Amy and Mom had so far escaped the obsession.

The room was tidy only in that nearly all of its contents were still in boxes, most of them still taped shut.

“Are, uh… are you all unpacked?” Amy asked, her eyes moving from box to box.

“No point.”

“It’ll take a few months before we find somewhere new,” Amy said.

“Not what I meant.”

“They’ll let you stay with us, Taylor,” said Amy. “Mom’s on it, and Dad says he thinks they’ll—”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Pika!” Pikachu reproached. “Pika pi!”

“Pikachu agrees with me,” said Amy said, almost managing a laugh. “The Barneses withdrew—”

“The Heberts—”

“Nobody’s even managed to get ahold of the—what are they? Second cousins?” Amy said.

“Third cousins once removed.”

“Same thing,” said Amy, her nearly-forgotten tired mood falling further away as Taylor’s lips twitched upwards. “What? It’s basic math.”

“If you say so,” said Taylor.

Quiet began to settle again. Amy searched the room for a topic. Pikachu; the many boxes; or—

“Writing another poem?”

“Nothing good,” said Taylor.

“I’d still read it,” said Amy.

Taylor peered over his notebook. He regarded Amy for a long moment, then his eyes flicked to the open door. Taking the hint, Amy closed it behind her as she stepped into Taylor’s room.

The notebook—a leather sleeve around a refillable core—was heavy and a tad unwieldy. A couple thin bands of leather swung beneath it as, after a moment’s hesitation, Taylor slowly held it aloft. Amy’s fingers brushed past Taylor’s as she carefully took the notebook, and through the contact she felt the tightness of anxiety in his muscles.

> He stole the perfect waffles  
the three of us once had:  
one morning in December,  
Just me and Mom and Dad.
> 
> They were stolen once before,  
then returned still sweeter.  
My late mother stole them then:  
I was ’fraid to see her.
> 
> Maple should flow thick and brown  
and taste of sugarcanes.  
Yet I see but only red;  
I feel it in my veins.
> 
> Though my mother never wore  
a color ’pon her lips  
In mem’ry I still see them  
stained red with blood that drips.
> 
> And I remember once remembering  
what I now cannot recall:  
that grin across my father’s face as he  
stacked his golden waffles tall.
> 
> He stole his grin out from my mem’ry  
and in its stead he placed:  
his ev’ry fear and terror of me;  
he rathered me erased.
> 
> He calls me ruined in a parody of love,  
and yet it’s him who’s ruined the perfection of  
those perfect waffles we had together;  
he sees not me, only false daughter.
> 
> He stole the perfect waffles  
I thought once we had…
> 
> He stole the perfect waffles.

Amy wasn’t quite sure what to say as she handed the notebook back to Taylor.

It wasn’t that the poem was good or bad; Amy wouldn’t know how to tell. It was something else, something trapped within a thought just beneath the surface of her mind. Something familiar, although Taylor’s experiences were far removed from her own.

_Scars_, Amy realized. The scars Danny had left had reshaped how Taylor saw his family.

And though it wasn’t the same, Amy’s image of her own family was still shaped by her own scars; a distrust that became mutual, only now starting to heal.

It was difficult even to think of her family as family, her father as Dad, her mother as Mom; difficult to care, difficult to feel, difficult to be.

A loud pounding on the door shook Amy from her reverie.

“You both in there?” Victoria yelled, her voice still loud through the thin door. “You gotta come down, I got Armsmaster to get Dragon to get us bootleg copies of old Wishbone episodes, but I, uh, kinda may have told him he could study Zapdos again?”

Amy and Taylor exchanged a glance. Taylor snorted.

Victoria continued chattering away.

“But Miss Militia and I think he just wants a friend,” she said. “And _I_ think the Director wants to hang out with Pikachu again, but Miss Militia says ‘Emily should get her own Pikachu,’ but I said that would be a different Pikachu— are either of you even in there?”

Victoria banged on the door again.

“Yes, _Vicky_,” said Amy. “We’re in here.”

“I got Wishbone!”

“We heard,” said Amy, opening the door.

“There’s no need to shout, Victoria,” Mom said, rounding the top of the steps to stand behind Victoria, cerulean mug in hand. Amy expected to smell tea, but instead— “I made hot cocoa. _Victoria and I_ are going to watch Wishbone. You’re free to join if you’d like.”

“Mom says it won’t hold up, but—”

“I _remember_ that show, Victoria,” Mom said. “I _know_ it won’t hold up.”

“What’s _Wishbone?_” Taylor asked.

“It’s about a dog who reads books and—” Victoria began, but—

“Why don’t you come downstairs and find out?” Mom asked. “There’s room for both of you on the couch. Victoria’s on the recliner, though why she likes the lumpy thing…”

Amy smiled at the thought: her and Taylor each sitting on either side of Mom, Amy’s head on her mom’s shoulder in a touch safe and warm and entirely personal…

The room soon emptied, and the door fell gently shut, leaving behind only the dark room and the gentle sounds of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Juff & Fwee for beta reading.
> 
> It’s been a bit of a long journey writing this story. I wasn’t able to work on it as often as I’d have liked, and as a result there were some threads I ended up either forgetting or giving up on (in particular surrounding my style of prose and use of color).


End file.
